Burying Dirt
by Zettel
Summary: An assassin is tasked to terminate a hacker. Will the assassin's record remain perfect?
1. A Kind of Life

A/N: A prose experiment. It is a novella, told in this peculiar fashion from beginning to end.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter One: A Kind of Life

* * *

Two dead flies on the rooftop ledge. Two.

A dead moth at her feet on the rooftop. One.

And she was neither alive nor dead. Nothing. Zero.

Reaching in her leather jacket pocket, she exhumed her Company phone.

* * *

**TOAPD  
****Today, ASAP  
****Report completion**

* * *

She knew she was officially in hell.

When the CIA began using its own acronyms...Since the CIA was a damned acronym. Acronyms using acronyms.

**T**ermination **O**rdered **A**s **P**er **D**iscussion. **TOAPD.**

**ASAP**. Well, that was an acronym with some age on it, predating the Age of Acronyms. Unlike the dead flies, the dead moth. The tar splatched on the rooftop stuck gummily to her shoes. And she would do it.

Termination. Attempt it. But, with her, to attempt was to succeed. She had a blemishless record.

Snow white. Lilly white. _Whiter than any fuller could white it._

Spotless. A lamb in whom there was nothing but guile. By others' blood, she was saved.

She spat on the rooftop, disgust her constant companion, bile rising to choke her.

There should have been a sign on the wall when she signed the Company papers. _Sign only if you have an exit ticket. _And then, in the next room, the one they took you to after signing: _There are no exit tickets. _The Company — easy to enter, hard to leave. The kind of life in which it was an insult to live and die. A kind of life.

Working with tight efficiency, she opened the briefcase she had positioned on the rooftop, beneath the ledge. She flattened it on the corpse of the moth, and after opening it, used her sleeve to brush away the corpses of the flies. She lived among corpses. She gave it no thought. Or tried to. Not to.

She assembled the rifle, piece by piece. Each click or tightening was a click or tightening in her. By the time the rifle was assembled, she and it had become one, each a weapon and nothing more.

But the rifle was meant to be a weapon and nothing more. She had to kill herself each time she assembled the rifle to kill her target. She became bored out, a channel for an explosion, a pathway for a projectile. Her only power stopping-power.

She affixed the scope and began to work on zeroing in the target.

Zero. Not dead, not alive. Her, not the target. The target was alive but would soon be dead. Not a zero. Not a corpse. An about-to-be-corpse.

She examined the target through the scope, like a biologist scientist examining a microscopic creature on a slide.

The target was a man. Tall. Lanky, even. Curly hair. Smile.

Nice smile. She blinked and looked down to realize she'd brushed the dead flies onto her black boots. Death march.

She made herself look through the scope again.

"Really?" She asked herself silently, laughing so too. "This guy?"

He was a clerk or something. At some stupid box store. He was outside, manning a booth, under a sign. _Ask me how I can help you?_ He had curly hair. He smiled. She had dead flies on her boots.

"Maybe a mistake." She ventured the hope. She scrolled through photos on her phone. There he was. The photo, especially on the phone screen, did not do him justice.

She would not either. Whatever it was she was going to do, she doubted justice had much if anything to do with it. Likely, the termination was unsanctioned.

Stopped caring. She had stopped caring about that months and corpses ago. But there had been sanctioned corpses before those.

The moth-corpse was beneath her briefcase. Dead flies. Boots. Death march.

She tinkered with the scope. The shot was simple. Across a parking lot. One round. His head would snap backward. He would feel nothing and would feel nevermore. _World without end, Amen_.

Nice smile. She tracked him as he moved from behind the booth. A young girl, tall, had approached the booth. She was pink. Rather, she was in pink, a Romantic tutu. Layers of tulle.

Before black boots, long before, the assassin had been a ballerina herself. She knew the types of tutu. Stupid to know that now, given her life. Stupid things floated to mind when waiting to kill another human being. She had spent a lot of the last ten years waiting.

Nice smile. Curly hair. He was helping the tutu girl. Her dad. The girl was staring at him, grateful. The assassin read his lips, knew what he said. "Real ballerinas are tall."

A lie. A kind lie. The girl beamed. Her father.

She would not kill him now, not with the girl there. Her father.

Leaning back, she stopped looking through the scope. He looked different, the man, from the distance, seen with her naked eyes. The scene. It looked different.

She waited. Some of the mortar between the bricks of the ledge was crumbling. She picked at it.

Her too. Mortar crumbling. Pieces of herself falling. All this had once made sense to her. A kind of sense. The view in the scope. The knife in the hand. The needle in the flesh. Orders. Missions. Objectives.

Using one boot, she knocked the dead fly off the other. Repeat. She looked up. The ballerina and her father were gone.

The assassin thought about her father. Her abortive childhood. Misspent. Like all of her life. All leading here, to dead bugs and a trigger to pull.

The man had done something. Hacked something. He was a hacker, had a code name, something to do with fish. She had not cared about that. She could remember it if she needed to.

She looked at him through the scope again. He was just standing. No one nearby. She buried her phone in her jacket pocket. She had an exit strategy.

Piece of cake.

**ASAP. **She exhaled slowly and tightened her grip on the trigger.

Nice smile. Tighter.

* * *

More?


	2. No Mistakes

A/N: Since you asked for it, more. If you want _more_ more, keep responding. Continued, expressed interest makes these posts materialize.

* * *

A note: This story is meant to be read *slowly*. I'm _trying_ to achieve a certain density and resonance here, and scanning will short-circuit it. Word choice and pattern matter. Turn the 45 down to 33⅓. Reading too fast blinds the reader to the very stuff of fiction, the words. — The story is _in _the words.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Two: No Mistakes

* * *

The assassin squeezed the trigger gently, caressing a lover.

The last of those, lovers, she could not clearly remember. Ago, years ago. The last trigger ago, weeks. Ago. Clear, technicolor red.

Too much death. Too many corpses. Too many death. Too much corpses. Any man's naked body against hers a man's cadaver, unbearable. Burial. That part of her life consigned to death. Empty chambers, empty clips, empty beds. A cold gun in her darkling embracement, not a man. A man, the man, in the relative-bright-embracement of her scope.

She squeezed the trigger to recoil, felt the flex into her shoulder. Recoil. From touch, a man's touch. Recoil. No, the rifle.

In the scope, the man's smile disappeared as he did. Down, down he went down. Spun. Spin. Spun.

Wait. _Shit_. Hit but missed. Missed? Cross-hairs crossed, variables all counted. Accounted for. Jots and tittles respectively jotted and tittled. Headshot. Dead. _Should be dead_. Success, not just an attempt. Her aim was untrue.

Not a kill-shot.

Missed. The moment spread itself around her like the parking lot spread below her. Dark and large. No one had noticed that the man had gone down. _Ask me how I can help you? _ The silencer on the rifle kept anyone from hearing. Traffic noise and sidewalk music too. She did not miss. Tinny-sounding speakers.

She had missed. She took no time for thought, recrimination. _Damn me later_.

She broke down the rifle, her blurred hands nonetheless exact. Full, she snapped the briefcase shut and shoved it down into a barrel of old garbage on the roof. Her kind of baptism, burial waste-deep. — _Arise, arise in foulness of life. The corruption of the conscience._

Through the heavy door. Gloves off hands.

Reaching under her jacket as she ran down the stairs, she drew her pistol. No glance at the stairs, she loped down them, gaining speed, even as she screwed a silencer on the pistol, circling as she descended. Corkscrew. Drain. Her life, a flush, amber water vortex.

Toilets flush in _E-flat. _She read that somewhere.

She would not miss again. _Shit. _One shot, close range. Dead. Mistake rubbed out, a smear of pink like a child's eraser on handwriting paper.

"Hope his eyes are shut." She said the words aloud, not sure who she was addressing. Her face felt dry and crumbly.

She slowed. Walked through the lobby of the building, gun tucked under her jacket, casual. Taking a moment to gawk. Pedestrian. Just pedestrian. _No one to see here, or remember._

Out the glass automatic door. Pneumatic, but the assassin felt old. _Problematic. _

Still no crowd at the outdoor booth. Man down, no notice. Yet. Quick, up-close execution. Intimate.

She started across the parking lot, forcing each step to be slow but long, moving faster than it looked like she was.

"Oh, My God!" Wailing surprise.

A woman at the booth. _Where did she come from? _

Quick visual scan: over medium height, brunette, attractive, well-dressed. The woman tossed her purse on the booth counter and ran around to the back of it.

The assassin stopped. Watched. Thinking. Trying to. Chewed her lip, tongued her own blood. She moved from one foot to the other, tar on her shoes. A sound as each came up, unstuck. She had not noticed until now.

"Someone get help! My brother. My God, he's been shot!"

_Brother_. Brunette sister of the nice smile. A small bearded man sprinted to the aid of the woman and her brother. His phone to his ear, he was talking while running.

The woman stood up as the man arrives, her hands out, blood on them.

"He's alive. But he needs help!" She took off her blouse, chemise underneath. The same color as the one the assassin had on beneath her shirt.

Strange. Blue.

"The ambulance is coming. What can I do?" Questions from a terrified beard.

The woman bent back down. "Hold this, use it." She handed the man her blouse. "Give me the phone. Keep pressure on the wound."

The woman stood again, dialed the phone, bloody hands. Asked to be patched through to the dispatched ambulance.

She described her brother's condition. Clinical terms. A doctor. Translated, shot in the shoulder. Blood loss. Serious wound.

The assassin listened. The man was alive. Nice smile, not ended. Not nevermore.

She recalled it, one corner of her mouth crooking skyward.

Non-theatrically, when had she last smiled? Ago, long ago. She gave no real smiles. Every smile she got, a serpent to the breast, foretoken of betrayal.

It made no sense. Mistake. _I make no mistakes_. She slipped into the forming crowd, swimming against the stream, _salmonid_, trough the lot and to her car, siren soundtrack.

She passed the ballerina and her father, hurrying back toward the booth.

_Shit. _Too bad. She hoped they had left. Spoiled the young girl's happiness. The assassin knew young girl unhappiness. Had known it. She had forgotten it, though. Put it away with other childish things. It meant nothing to her. Now.

She sat and waited for the ambulance. Noting the hospital it was from, markings, she started her car and drove away. A hotel room as faceless as she awaited her. She would fill it with her nothingness, lay on the bed, watch the electric clock. Minutes reduced to red numbers.

Red. The man.

The hospital. People died there all the time.

A disturbance in her chest. Against her chest. Vibration. Phone. _Damn Company_. She dug the phone out.

* * *

**Report?  
****Mission complete?**

* * *

The assassin lowered the phone back into her pocket. _Forgiveness over permission_.

Erase the mistake. But she always responded. But she always succeeded.

She needed scrubs. A wig. Stop before the hotel, buy some. A change of weapon, hidden in her suitcase.

The man, the hacker, would be in surgery for a time, so she had time. Scrubs, wig. Dress for his funeral.

No mistake.

Scrub stop. Black. Wig shop nearby. Brunette. A pair of glasses, Plano lenses. Plano. The word bothered her. She shook her head. No correction, refractive error. _I do not make mistakes. _

Parked at the hotel, she left her car, walked through the lobby, onto the elevator, off the elevator, and to her room, shopping bags in hand.

Inside, she dropped the bags. Her room had been serviced. Everything neat, bed made. She felt unmade, suddenly. Her hands began to shake. Shake, and the shake seemed to climb, wrist, elbows, shoulders, her whole body.

Shook. An involuntary spasm like a seizure. And a cry. Like the woman, the smile's sister. A sob. Foreign. An invasion. Intimate invasion. She did not sob. _What are these, tears? _

_I do not sob. I do not miss. I make no mistakes. _

Bed. She stumbled to it, fell face-forward, fisting the bedcover, stifling her sobs.

The sobs were upon her now, unstoppable. She had no stopping-power for them. Each effort at resistance increased violence. She pressed her face deeper into the bedcover, muffling the growing sound. Using a silencer on herself.

That had started long ago. Ago. Her father taught her. _My little girl doesn't cry, too tough. A rare grin as she wiped away her tears._

At some point, she fell into feverish slumber. She woke, staring at the hotel clock. Three hours since her mistake. Since she shot the smile. Tried to terminate the nice smile. Expected to. Ordered to. Intended to. Simple, zero, one, two...

She showered, washing her sobs away. Unsanctioned sobs.

She put on the scrubs, put the wig in a large bag, and the Plano glasses and other essentials. From her suitcase, she retrieved a syringe and a small vial of poison. She had driven to LA, so there was no worry about suitcase-search. Her tools traveled with her, carrion comfort.

She was ready. Resisting the impulse to face herself in the mirror, she left the room.

Time to erase the mistake. Maybe he was dead already. Then, there would have been no mistake, just a slower-than-expected success. Slo-mo death. Normally, her work involved death, not dying. Targets dead immediately. _Death is not a part of life but dying is. _No lingering. Still, the man would be dead.

Either way, she would leave, her perfect record. Blemishless. It was the only thing of hers that was. She would keep it.

**FML**. No mistake.

* * *

A/N: More? Talk to me, please.


	3. Speak of the Devil

A/N: Prose experiment continues.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Three: Speak of the Devil

* * *

Back in her car, the assassin donned the brunette wig.

She looked at herself in the rearview but thought of the brunette sister of the smile.

Blood on her hands.

The doctor. Salvific blood on the doctor's hands. Damning blood on the assassin's hands.

Make-up kit from the bag. Lipstick darker than any she would normally wear. Name on the tube: _Urban Decay: Bad Blood._

_Do I normally wear lipstick? Only as costume. I am normally in costume. If you are normally in costume, is it _costume _anymore? — Who am I? Is there an I in me? _

Eyeshadow, heavy, dark. The Plano glasses above the lipstick, in front of the eyeshadow. Mousy, ever-so-slightly clownish. Enough. The scrubs were a size too large, tied extra tight in the front, better to obscure her, her figure. Enough.

She turned the key, engine clattered, took a breath, feelings spiked. _No. I do not feel my feelings. _Hands squeezing the steering wheel, she fought for numbness, to invoke her capacity to freeze herself, make her own blood slushy.

_Ice Queen. _Her Company nickname. Whispered, part derision, part fear.

When she worked, she wore an hoarfrost mask: it kept others from reading her. But it was a 'two-way' mask. it allowed her to see the world only as to-be-handled, to-be-manipulated. The hoarfrost mask was a blue-light filter, except it was a humanity-filter. From behind it, no one else was a bearer of subjectivity. Soft targets or hard targets, all. Targets. All darkness inside them. Her head full of zombies.

But her blood would not slush. The hoarfrost mask, her gift-curse, would not fall into place.

Feelings. Dread. Shame. _Guilt_. — She knew their names, carried them inside her, but she did not name them. She did not speak of her devils.

She felt the shaking recommence.

She gritted her teeth, steeling herself against herself. Driving. By the time she reached the hospital, she felt normal, unfeeling. _The Ice Queen Cometh._

She parked. Final check in the rearview. Fine.

She looked around, no one watching. With nurse-like expertise, she filled the syringe from the vial, flicked it with her finger, put on the syringe cap back on. The latest Company-engineered toxin. Lethal, fast-acting, hard to detect. The Ice Queen in liquid form. She slipped it into the pocket of her scrubs. Her phone was in the other pocket. Leaving her jacket in the car, she entered the building.

The goal: look like she belonged. A skill, one of hers. To visitors, she would look like staff, to staff, like a visiting health professional, another unlucky worker-in-scrubs. She needed to find the man.

She sat down in the first waiting room she found and took out her phone. Unscrolled the information she had been sent and had already seen.

The man's name was _Charles Irving Bartowski_. Charles. _Chuck_.

She normally filed the names of her targets away, known but never in mind, dispositional, never occurrent. No need to name the lamb to slaughter.

The brunette sister, Ellie Woodcomb. No picture. Husband, Devon, doctor at the hospital too. No picture. No information at all on the beard.

As she looked at her phone, she stayed alert to conversations around her.

Two nurses passed.

"Really, Dr. Woodcomb's brother got _shot_?"

"Yes, random, apparently. Some kind of drive-by, maybe, but who'd shoot a guy working a Buy More booth? It's like the definition of _harmless_."

Pained shrug. "I went out with him once, you know."

"No, I didn't know. Were you two…"

Second pained shrug. "No, I...liked him...a lot...but he...It never _clicked_. I'm going to go and check on him, on Ellie, Dr. Woodcomb."

_Sometimes luck smiles even on the worst intentions. _The assassin got up and followed the painful-shrug nurse after she parted ways with the other. The assassin trailed her down an endless hallway. Antiseptic. Then the painful-shrug nurse turned left and through large double doors.

In the next hall stood the brunette. Ellie.

She had put on a scrub top and was standing, holding hands with a blonde man. Devon. They were talking to another doctor.

The painful-shrug nurse stood off to the side, waiting for the conversation to break. The assassin paced slowly by the group. The doctor was talking.

"It was a freakish shot. I'd say miraculous, but that seems...incongruous, given the near-tragedy. No shattered bones. No damaged organs. Lots of bleeding — luckily you were on the scene so quickly, Ellie — but no cuts or nicks to major arteries. The bullet entered to the right of the lung, above the ribs and below the clavicle, the subclavian artery, and vein. The bullet expanded, fragmented, and that resulted in tissue damage, and one small fragment lodged in the outer wall of his lung — but given what could have happened...Well, thank God, _a freakish shot._ He needs time to rest and recover, heal, but he should be _okay_. He'll be waking up soon-ish."

The assassin walked on, no pause, the essential information hers. He would live. So she would have to kill him. Kill him. Have to. _Perfect record. _

He would live. She felt warm all over, could feel the pink of her cheeks from the inside.

She took a turn at the end of the hallway, paused out of sight for a minute or two, then retraced her steps, head down, seemingly lost in her phone. Zigzag walk.

The painful-shrug nurse was hugging Ellie. Devon had his hand on Ellie's shoulder. The hug ended just before the assassin passed the group again. No one noticed her.

"I'm so glad, Dr. Woodcom. _Drs_. Woodcomb. He's a _great_ guy. You know I believe that…"

Ellie nodded, hint of sadness. "Yeah, Wanda, I do. Thanks."

Wanda went in the other direction as the assassin passed.

"Ellie," Devon said, concerned, "let's go grab a coffee, get some food in you. You look pale." He checked his watch. "It'll be another twenty minutes or so, at least, before the Chuckster's awake. You don't need him worrying about you."

_Strange. Strange hacker. Strange hacker family. These people seem. Good. These people seem good._ — _Why am I here?_

"Okay, Devon, you're right. But let's hurry. The policeman said he would be back soon too. I want to talk to him more. This makes no _goddamn_ sense. Who would shoot _Chuck_? Why?"

"I don't know, Ellie. No clue."

They walked away. The assassin took a seat on a couch in the nearby waiting area. She sat until they were gone.

_My chance. _

She got up, walking with determination, she headed to the room outside which the doctor had been talking. She went right in the door. The luck of the bad still smiled on her. The room was empty.

Except for him. The man. Charles Bartowski. Chuck. Lamb to slaughter.

Hand in scrub pocket, she walked to his bedside. He was paler than in her scope. No smile. Ashen. Enveloped in hospital white and green-bright, beeping machines. Chuck.

"Wish I didn't know your name, Chuck." She spoke to him. — _Shut up, Sarah!_

She took out the syringe and uncapped it. She put the cap in her pocket. All things were ready. Time to correct the mistake, to wipe away the blemish.

Her hands started to shake. Ignoring it, she lifted Chuck's arm. It felt unexpectedly warm.

"Oooh...Your hands are warm." He gazed at her, around him. "What happened?" The man was awake, half. Chuck.

Chuck gave her a slow, narcotized, narcotizing smile. Nice smile.

Really nice smile.

"You're...so pretty. Are you here...to take care of me?" Chuck's eyes drooped, heavy-closed in sleep, but his smile still targeted her.

She felt the Company phone vibrate in her pocket.

* * *

A/N: Thoughts?

There's a subtle nod here to _Thinkling's_ great story, _Sarah vs. Finding Herself. _Chuck's bullet wound is, in effect, the one he took in that story, in "The First Case" chapter. I've more or less borrowed the description of it from there. I love that story.

Yes, this is a prose experiment. But it is an experiment driven by the story itself, not imposed on the story from the outside. Given the story I want to tell, this is what I take to be the most effective formal approach to doing it. Something crucial about our central character is on display in the prose, in its formal properties.


	4. Fear Reflux

A/N: Merry Christmas! If you are looking for light-hearted holiday fare, this...um...isn't it. (Give my _Red and Green _or my _A Year?_ a try if that's what you want or one of the other Christmas tales.) We have miles to go before we sleep; we watch our words fill up with snow.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Four: Fear Reflux

* * *

Shut. Vibrate. Chuck's eyes, Company phone. She put his arm down and recapped the syringe, dropped it in a scrub pocket.

Still alone in the room, she thrust her hand down in the other pocket, unearthed her phone.

* * *

**Mission completed?  
****Report?**

* * *

The assassin glanced from the screen to the man. To Chuck. Still asleep, back asleep. But still smiling at her.

_At her. _

She had been a target before. Deliberately, coolly went about business knowing she was about to be crucified on someone's crosshairs.

She had stared into the business end of pistols, rifles. Felt chill steel on the flesh of her body, her arms, her throat. Business, all business, just business. The business of death. Her business. Risk it to cause it.

But that smile, that nice smile, that really nice smile. _Unnerves me. Terrifies me. _Afraid, she felt afraid. Of it. That smile. Beyond her ken. A smile that could roll back a stone, a tombstone. _Lazarus, come forth!_

But the mission, her record. The phone screen.

The man.

Orders.

That smile.

The door opened behind her. _Shit. _The doctor entered, the one who talked to the brunette. Ellie. Talked to Ellie. He had a pad in his hand, head down, muttering. He did not look up but he registered her presence. "Please check and see if Mr. Bartowski things have been moved into this room."

Without a verbal answer, but with a nod, the assassin left the room.

She shoveled her Company phone back into her pocket. Walking as quickly as she could, she passed a nurse she had not seen yet, tall, brunette, carrying a transparent plastic bag. Wallet, phone, keys.

_Chuck's things._ _Doctor thought I was her, the nurse. _

After going around the corner, the assassin slowed, stopped. _What am I doing here?_

_Missed my chance. Ago. Years ago. Moments ago. Forever ago. _

She walked on through long hallways, careful to keep her face down. Lots of people with faces down in hospital hallways. Antiseptic. She took a turn.

She found herself in a sunlit atrium. Scattered around, tables. Cafeteria. Ellie and Devon glowing in bright sunlight. In the shining, the thinly veiled terror in Ellie's face. Open worry and concern in Devon's. They had been caught by the expansion, the fragments of the assassin's bullet too. Lodged in their hearts' tissue. Pain. Her, the cause.

Her fault.

"_A freakish shot."_

— She missed, didn't she? But how did she miss so...well? "_Only the true marksman can be sure of missing." Sniper instruction, spy school, The Farm. _But she took the shot. Kill-shot. _Didn't I?_

_Dead flies on my boots. Crosshairs. Scope, high relative-brightness. Jots and tittles. I's dotted, T's crossed. No mistake._

Neither Ellie nor Devon had looked her way. She took a seat at a table far across the atrium, her back to them. She sat down and pressed her palms on the table. Focus. — _Why am I here?_

Hacker. _I don't know what he hacked or when he hacked it. Just that. That he is a hacker. Fish codename, Piranha. _She giggled to herself, superimposing Chuck's smile onto the predatory fangs of the fish. _Incongruous. More goldfish than piranha. _Still, he had done something or was believed to have done something that irked the Company.

Irked Langston Graham, CIA Director. The man the assassin answered directly. Boss. Sender of texts. Texts like tablets of stone, her commandments. Ten, twenty, a thousand. Endless. Years in the wilderness, following Graham, pillar of cloud.

Chuck had irked Langston Graham. _Somehow._ Maybe Chuck was a threat to national security. _Maybe._ But she saw him, targeted her with that smile. A real one, even if drugged.

She was unsure Chuck had an unreal smile.

_Not Chuck. _The man. She needed to forget this name, stop this. Brunette. Smile's sister. Smile's sister's husband.

She turned. They, Ellie and Devon, _damn_, had stood. Smile's sister's husband looked at his watch. They joined hands. Headed back to Chuck.

She retrieved her phone. Scrolled back through texts. Her life in commandments. _Thou shalt kill…_

The phone vibrated in her hand. Her hands, shaking, kept her from noticing. _An inner process stands in need of an outward criterion. More Farm, applied to herself._

* * *

**Report?**

* * *

She needed to admit her mistake. Graham would soon know, if not already, that the man was not dead. Smile not nevermore.

Chuck.

If she did not report, Graham would send another terminator. Terminate the hacker.

Someone else.

The assassin glanced around the atrium. Behind Ellie and Devon, disappearing down a hallway, a man. Not behind, following. Visual inventory: always the posture, the human equivalent of a cat stalking a bird, crouched tail moving in intent spirals.

Graham had already dispatched someone else. Dispatch. To dispatch Chuck. Record her mistake. Imperfect record.

The man was good but not elite. A makeshift. Graham making do. She could not let him kill the hacker. That was her job. Her record on the line. A line on her record, a fault. Her fault.

She arose. Her shakes were gone. Zeroed in on the man. Suited, ill-fitted. Room for a holster. Looking closer. _Yes. _Ellie and Devon ahead and then the man, an assassin, and then her, the assassin. A parade of life and death.

Scanning down the hallway, a door. She saw it. Stairwell exit. And then she remembered the man. Saw him once, at a distance, identified by another agent. A cruel son-of-a-bitch, sloppy. Messy, painful kills. Relegated to a corner. As relentless as merciless: _Ryker_. The name flashed into her mind.

Graham was scraping the barrel's bottom, pure sludge. But that meant the hacker mattered. What he had done? 'Irked' too weak. _Something else. _Graham was cautious. Concerned about blow-back. That was why the assassin was so busy. No rest for the wicked. He trusted her.

Or he had.

_What had she done? _

Normally, her leash was long, long. Sending Ryker testified to Chuck's importance, but also to a shift in Graham where she was concerned. Later-than-expected terminations were infrequent, but even for her, they occurred. Hours behind, she was only hours behind.

Ryker had almost made it to the stairwell door. So fixated on Ellie and Devon he had not looked behind him. _Why not? Is he really this sloppy?_

She caught him, moving soundlessly, by the door, and jerked him bodily into the stairwell, It was empty. The syringe, in her hand already. The needle, embedded in his throat.

"Why are you here?" A hiss.

Ryker's eyes were feral. "Bitch! Ice Queen bitch!"

"Why?"

"You're broken. _Burnt. _Notice is out. I'm here to clean up your mess."

He could feel the needle. Death's intimate invasion. She could see the needle in his eyes.

"Let me go. I'll contact Graham. Must be a mistake. Fix it after we terminate Bartowski."

She thumbed the plunger of the syringe hard and propelled him down the stairs. Thump. Thump. Snap. Thump. He tumbled down, dead before his body somersaulted brokenly onto the next landing.

"No one terminates...Bartowski...but me."

She pronounced the words softly as she emptied his pockets into hers. Peeled off his jacket. Took gun and holster. Jacket back on him. Back up the stairs, two at a time. She took the gun and shoved it in her tight-tied scrub pants' waist. Balled up the holster, syringe inside.

Calmly back into the hallway. She dumped the holster, a nearby trash can. Back to the hacker's room.

_Why had Ryker not looked back? Her reputation preceded her. _

_Back-up. _Ryker had back-up. Someone else was in the hospital. The assassin began to walk more quickly. She looked behind her. No one. _Chuck._

Afraid. Terrified.

The second time in a day.

Still the same day that began by the ledge. Dead moth. _How? _Moths ago, months ago.

Ago.

* * *

A/N: Don't know about you, but I'm surely enjoying this. Each word a fresh pleasure.

Thoughts? You have to think about this story. Lots going on in the words.

Merry Happy Holidays!


	5. Ringed About With Corpses

A/N: More story.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter 5: Ringed About With Corpses

* * *

To Chuck's room. At pace. Not too fast. Decelerate. Nurse or visitor. Not a killer.

She just killed Ryker. Left on a landing. Bad landing. Accident. It would look like. CIA toxin plungered into a toxic CIA agent.

By one. Her blood slushy. _Ice Queen_.

_Back-up._ Ryker had back-up.

Glance backward. No one. Wait. _Believed_ he had back-up. But Graham's word, worthless. _Two_ assassins. Three, counting her. But the other was not backing-up Ryker. Ryker and the other and her _all_ with Chuck as target.

Not _Chuck_. The smile. Not _the smile_. The man. Just the target. Three weapons aimed at one target, trisected. Graham's redundancy, built-in.

The assassin was _burnt_. Out. Ryker had not lied. About that. The panic needling his eyes. First words, true. Lied about fixing it, but not about something to fix.

Graham burned her.

All these years, burned down to the socket. Nothing left, then abandoned. Company refuse. Dead flies, dead moth. Harbingers. Done, she was done. For now.

No one would kill...the man...but her. A fact of hard record.

_Fix it. Remove the blemish. Perfect. Kill the smile. Hide. Establish contact with Graham. Intermediaries. Negotiate. _

Reinstatement. _Where else can I go? No further beyond._ Langley exhausted her known world. No new world. Only the old.

Her chest hurt. Hurt. She turned the hallway corner.

Down the hallway, Ellie, shrieking.

"Gone? Where's the policeman? How can he be gone? He was here twenty minutes ago?"

The doctor was standing, red-faced. Nurses. Motionless. Chuck's door open. Weeping, Ellie, arms thrashing. Devon pulled her into a hug, holding her arms.

"Maybe it's a mistake, Ellie. Maybe they've taken him for tests?"

The doctor shook his head.

_Chuck? Gone?_

_Third assassin. _

Just discovered. Couldn't be far. Stretcher. _Chuck can't walk. _Elevator. No stairs, stretcher.

Time stretched out and out. Another stairwell. Through the door and down, turn, down, turn, down. _Have to make it in time! _

Basement garage. Chest about to explode, heart jackhammering, gasping for breath, out the stairwell door.

Darkness.

Into darkness. Ryker's gun up and out. Blinked, struggled to see in the lowlight underworld. Quick turned, scanned. Listened. Voices. Two. A team.

The assassin crept toward the voices. A white van. Rear doors open.

"Hurry, damn it!" A man.

"Why can't we just kill him now?" A woman.

"Not here, not now. Hurry, I said, _hurry._ Give him the shot, keep him under."

A pause. The sound of metal sliding on metal. "Done. In."

The doors closed. Policeman. Woman dressed as a doctor. _Costumes._

The policeman looks around.

"How soon before they find the guy this belongs to?"

He touched the uniform. Looked down at it. The woman too. Looked at it.

"A while, if we're lucky. A detective should be along soon too. And that bitch Walker may be around. Let's go."

The policeman looked at the doctor. "Don't say her name. Haven't you seen the movie?"

Quickly toward the front of the van. Opposite sides, still talking, hurried but professional. Doing their job.

"What movie?"

"_Candyman_."

The doctor opened the passenger door. The policeman opened the driver's door.

"Don't you have to say it five times? I only mentioned Walker once. Okay, twice."

She slid into the seat.

"Walker."

"_Stop_ saying that."

Van started.

_Move_. In a crouch, the assassin moved. Absolute silence. Gun to the temple of the doctor before she can close the door.

"You called?"

The doctor jerked. The policeman went for his gun.

The assassin shot. Twice, split-second. Sound ricocheting around the garage.

Doctor's body pushed into the space between the front seats. Climbed up and in. Gun on the dash. Policeman's body pulled to her, lowering it head-and-shoulders into the passenger footwell.

Careful to touch only the clothes.

Climbed over into the driver's seat, pushing the policeman's legs aside, then dropped them in her lap. Grabbed the gun. Turned to the rear.

Relief. Long sigh.

Chuck on a stretcher. Belted down. Not awake. The doctor's head on his feet. _Shit. _

Body count rising. Waste-deep.

She pointed the gun at Chuck, a second time that day, gun trained on him. She was ringed about with corpses. One more…

No.

**FML. **Not here. Not now. She shuts off her Company phone.

Van in _reverse_, yielding the spot. No one coming. No one chasing. Soon. _Go!_

Van in _drive. _Out into the flattening light of the afternoon sunset, everything California golden, dreaming. Shoved the policeman's legs off her lap, over onto the doctor.

Blood on her scrubs.

Sign for freeway ahead. Turn. Gas pedal down, down.

She got out of town, the really nice smile behind her, corpses beside her, van filled, the stench of blood and California sundown through rear windows.

ooOoo

Long, dark shadows as the van left the highway. A web of smaller roads, and finally onto a forest road in _Los Padres National Forest_.

The assassin drove deep into the dark forest, the heart of darkness. She found a spot to drive the van off the road and into the trees.

Once there, she stopped the van, shut off the engine. Dome light turned on. Glovebox flashlight. Worked. Dome light off.

Out of the van into the still of the forest. Fresh air. No scent of blood but no time to breath. Around the front of the van, the assassin opened the passenger door.

Yanked out the policeman. The doctor was more work. Back into the van. Body into the passenger seat. Out driver's door. Around. Yanked out. Doctor body beside policeman body. Spies. She did not recognize either. Flashlight off.

Deep breath of forest air, undressed the bodies. Bodies stiffening but still pliable.

Another breath. Wiped down both bodies, using the doctor's white long coat to be sure. Everything picked up. Flashlight on, momentary final check. Yes, everything.

The assassin deposited the clothes and other items in the passenger seat. She went around and got in the van again, flashlight still in hand.

Blowing out a breath, she passed between the seats to the rear. Flashlight on. Chuck's face. Pale. She checked his bandage. It did not look like he was bleeding. Breathing shallow but steady. Pulse okay.

She flicked the light to the side. A shovel and a pick.

Good. After she killed him, she could bury him.

But she would not kill him now.

Graham had burnt her. She would burn him back, down to the socket. Chuck had something, knew something. _What? _Something that mattered to Graham. She needed to keep Chuck alive.

So she could find out what. Tilt the playing field. Her favor. Graham wanted Chuck dead. She had him alive.

Graham's usual shadow game. But he was playing against a shadow.

Gave the assassin the edge — except she was a shadow lugging a body, a living body.

The man. The smile. The really nice smile. Chuck.

She would kill him later when she had what she needed from him. Right now, she needed supplies. A place for them to sleep.

Back in the driver's seat, out of the trees and into the forest.

ooOoo

Back on the highway. Stop at a drugstore. Roll of cash in policeman's pants. Mostly large bills. More than enough. Supplies.

Driving again.

_What am I doing? I've prepared for this. New identity ready. Monies secreted. I can walk away. Leave the van. Go. _

_Go where? Do what? Become a contract killer? _More ledges, more dead flies. _Who am I?_

She heard Chuck moan. She needed to find a room. Get him in a bed.

An old-style motel on the side of the road. Detached cottages. Pulled in. Parked. Paid cash. Last cabin, back of it against the trees.

Backs the van close to the door. Unscrews the cottage outside light. Goes inside, puts down the blinds, draws the curtains.

In the darkness, stretcher out of the van. Pulled inside. Not easy. She looked around. No lights in nearby cottages. No facing window in the lobby.

Moved Chuck carefully, stretcher to bed. Hard work. Tall, heavier than expected. He moaned again. Lamp on. Eyes flickered.

_Awake, he will be hurting._ She went out, moved the van out of sight, tight against the side of the cottage. She gathered the doctor's clothes and the policeman's clothes. The bags of supplies.

Back inside, everything on the desk, trash bag from the can, clothes in it. Also a knife and two phones, phones off when found. Off, left them off. Knife by the gun on the nightstand opposite Chuck's side of the bed.

The phones, Company burners. Familiar. Unlikely trace, but she checked. No sign.

In the bathroom, doffed the glasses, the wig, washed her hands and face. Toed off her shoes. Kept her eyes from the mirror.

She felt the shaking begin again. Other than the bed, there was a desk chair in the room. Nothing else. The floor looked gross. Geodesic expanse of who-knew-what, wall to wall.

Sat on her side of the bed, then stretched slowly onto her back. Sighed. Glanced at Chuck. Color still okay. Breathing was deeper. Bandage good.

Shot him that morning. Saved him that afternoon. Shared a bed with him that night.

Strange day. Time on a stretcher. Dead flies. Dead moth. Dead assassins. Live target.

_He'll wake soon and the next few hours will be...difficult. I need rest. _Her eyes closed.

Empty chambers, empty clips, not-so-empty bed.

* * *

A/N: How about a comment? Thought? Love to hear from you.


	6. Kill or Kyle

A/N: More of the story.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Six: Kill or Kyle

* * *

"Where am I? So thirsty. I'm thirsty."

Chuck spoke in the darkness. Thick. Raspy. Wheezy.

The assassin woke from her sleep, unexpectedly heavy. Dreamless. Woke — one hand extended in the semi-darkness, resting on Chuck's forearm. The smile's forearm. The man's.

Sarah sat up, clicked on the lamp, light now on her side of the bed too.

"Where am I? Uhnnn…"

Pain. Up. The assassin dug out painkillers from her bag of drugstore supplies, help, not ideal. To the bathroom, hurried, unwrapped a plastic cup. Water, cup in hand. Double-dose of pills in the other.

Woke, hand resting on Chuck's forearm.

Eyes wide, now fully awake, Chuck watched her. Pain and fright. Trying to control both, but eyes rolling a bit.

"Who _are_ you? I dreamt...No...But...Looked like you…"

"Here. Take these. Drink this."

Hand extended with cup. Curt, commanding. _Establish control in the first instant_: Farm instruction.

She stood on his left side, wounded side.

He reached out with his right hand, across his body. Sharp intake of breath, his, eyes closed. Open, he hisses away the pain. Hiss caused cough. She dropped the pills in his hand. He put them in his mouth, reached out for the cup.

Hand touched hers. Sharp intake of breath, hers, eyes open. Looked away.

He drank, took the pills.

"Where am I?"

He looked at her. Eyes met. Brown, brown hazel. His eyes. _Control._

"What happened to me?" Brown hazel inquiry.

She waits for lies to come, flies to honey. Life abuzz with lies. Undead flies, buzzing zombies. In her head. Nothing comes but silence. Silence.

And then. "You were shot yesterday."

He looked down at himself, stunned chin drop. Moved his right hand slowly to his left shoulder. His hand was shaking. The pain had to be intense. She did not care. Tried to. Not care.

"Shot? Who would shoot me?"

"Spies."

She watched him closely. A flare of something in his eyes. Not just pain or outrage. Surprised, shocked. Not all shock. Something. _What?_

He shifted, frowned, squeezed his eyes shut for a second.

"That makes no sense." Eyes opened, flare gone. Used his pain to focus, remain calm. No dummy. She knew the drill.

"Where am I?"

"At a motel north of LA."

"Shouldn't I be in a hospital?"

She shrugged. "Yes, but…"

"But?"

"Other spies came to finish the job. Finish...you. Secreted you from your room. Put you in a van..."

His face had slackened but he nodded, waiting for her to go on.

"I stopped them."

"And who are you?"

A million names. At the ready, covers galore, a lifetime of her kind of life, never herself.

Costumes. Bad blood lipstick.

A million names, fragments of herself, fragmented self. Names at the ready. _Roll call, choose one._

"Sarah." _Shit._

He looked at her. "So, you saved my life, ...Sarah?"

She shrugged, not trusting her mouth. Nodded.

"That means you are...a spy too?"

_Burnt spy. _Another nod. _Leave the burning out of this._

Looked at her some more. _What does he see? What's he looking for? _Empty socket.

"Okay." Wince. "Let me see if I understand." Right hand on his forehead, thinking. "I was shot while manning the Buy More's _Extra Mile of Customer Service _booth. Shot by...a spy?"

The assassin nodded. Third nod.

Another hiss, wince. Brief cough. "And, I'm taken to the hospital. Operated on?"

"Yes."

"And then more spies show up and...steal...me from the hospital and you...stop them?"

His voice had gone up in pitch. Pain and panic. He stopped. Fought them back. Coughed.

"And you are...hiding me in a…" — a glance around the room — "room that looks like a leftover set from _It Happened One Night_?"

She stared. _What? _"A set?"

He shifted. Gritted his teeth to do it. "God, I hope those pills at least blunt the edge of this. It hurts. It really, really hurts." He closed his eyes, pulling his lips into his mouth. Tried to control his breathing. He seemed embarrassed.

"Yes," he offered after a long silence, "a set. Clark Gable. Claudet Colbert. A movie. The bus breaks down, they pretend to be husband and wife. To get a room…at a road camp." Sigh to hiss. But no cough.

"Oh. Never seen it."

She saw him tremble.

"The pain. Any better?"

He shook his head. "Not yet." Another tremble. "I'm freezing."

To the closet. An extra blanket. Spreads it over him.

"After anesthesia, it takes time to regulate your body temperature."

"How do you know that?"

"I've been operated on. Shot." _Shut up, Sarah._

He looked at her a third time. Her scrubs.

Looks closely enough to see the blood on them, on the hem of her scrub top.

Managed to hide it from the desk clerk checking in. Easy to keep him focused on her chest.

"My blood?"

She looks down at the hem.

"No."

His eyes soften. "Yours?"

"No."

"Oh."

"Rest. We'll talk more when you're in less pain. I'm here. Sleep."

He stared into her eyes. She bore it. Needed him to trust her. Believe he could trust her.

"Okay, we'll talk later. What time is it?"

The assassin glanced at the cheap digital clock on her side of the bed. "About 1:15 am."

Despite his pain, a weak, goofy grin. "Past my curfew."

He closed his eyes. She stared at his face, the grin still on it. His face relaxed.

Around the bed to the drugstore bag. Granola bar. Unwrapped the end.

Sat on the bed. Her side.

_Need to think. Plan. Get rid of the van. _ Bite, chew. _Need to find out what Chuck knows, how he knows it. Graham will send others. Need clothes. Better place to hide. Someplace to disappear for a while, work this out. _Bite, chew.

Rewrapped the remaining granola bar.

Stretched out. Glanced at Chuck. Asleep. _Good. _Tremble. She felt him tremble. Tremble again.

Lifted the edge of his blanket like lifting the world's edge, rolled carefully against him, under it too.

Warm him. _The Ice Queen. _

Need him. Need him to rest. Need him to rest so that I can close with Graham. Chuck.

Important.

ooOoo

More dreamless sleep. Warmly adrift.

Chuck moved, moaned. The assassin's arm, stretched across his stomach. Feet mixed together. She jerked, rolled away. Fast. Jostled him. Hard.

"Aaahhrgh!" Muffled cry.

Heart hammering, she stands. No words. Now she is freezing. Freezing. 5:03 am.

He whispered. "Pain's too much. Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

_What? _Wake _me_?

Stop thought. Pain-killers. Shook them in her hand. Bathroom, unwrapped another cup. Water. Cold against fingers, flimsy plastic. Remembered being warm. Contact. _Holding_.

She shut it off. The water. Stole a glance at herself in the mirror. Haggard. Flushed. Stretched thin, her skin like plastic on her bones. Trash bag overstuffed. Year of UnGlad. Bodybag. _Lord, by this time she stinketh. For she had been dead for…_

"Shit, shit, Sarah, or whatever your name is, it hurts!" Reluctant cry. Low.

She almost-ran to the bedside, his. "Here, take these."

He did, gulped thirstily. Holds out the cup. She got him more water. Finishes it. Stole a glance as he does. She ran fingers through her hair.

"Thanks."

She shrugged.

"Can you stand it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I think so." He regarded her. "Why can't you take me to a hospital. A different one?"

"Because the people targeting you will not stop until you are dead."

He went white beneath already-pale.

"There'll be more?"

"Yes. They'll keep coming."

Shaking his head carefully, he grinned at her again. "So, this is like _The Terminator_? _I'm_ Sarah. Except _you're_ Sarah."

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

"Sarah Connor. The woman the machine is trying to kill in the movie."

"Machine? Never saw it."

He groaned through pain. "You're like a _tabula rasa._"

"Stop talking in riddles."

"Sorry, the pain. A blank slate."

"Believe me, I'm not. Blank."

"Why do you look familiar to me? I would remember seeing you before."

"I've got no clue." _Finally, a lie._

"You sure you aren't a...nurse?"

"Yes, sure. But can you bear me checking the wound?"

"I'll manage."

She put her hands on him. Rolled him away from her. On his side. Blood on the bandage but just seepage. She got what she needed from the drugstore bag.

Peeled back the bandage. Stitches. Ragged tears. Stomach-churning discoloration, only to get worse. Damage. She ran her fingers across his flesh, near the wound, barely in contact. The ground ached beneath her, the ache rising into her. Damage. My fault. Exit wound.

Shook her head. "It looks okay." She bathed it in alcohol. He hisses as she hurts him. More. Her hands wanted to shake but she refused to allow them. Reapplied the bandage. Repeat from other side of the bed, kneeling carefully in front of him, knees in the aching mattress. Entrance wound. Smaller, grey ringed. He looked at her watery eyes. She has stared too long.

He needed antibiotics. Better pain-killers. At least he was not bleeding. Coughing not uncontrolled.

Pillow fluffed. Helped him roll back over. Covered him.

"I need to leave for a while. Um, errands. I know you are hurting. I will put more pain-killers beside you on the bed. I'm afraid you'll spill the water if I put it on the bed and you shouldn't try to reach it…"

"I can choke them down, Kyle."

"_Kyle_?"

"I don't believe _Sarah_...is your real name. And since," he moaned for a moment, wheezed, "since I have more claim to the name, I'll be Sarah. Connor. And two Sarah's is just confusing. That makes you...Kyle Reese, the brave time-traveler who saves me. So, _Kyle._" Coughed.

Mouth open but can't close it. _Time-travel? Ago?_

She shook herself. Spoke. "You're an odd man, ...Sarah." She felt a grin 'u' her lips, as if they were not hers.

He grins back, a cherry atop his pain. "Indeed, Kyle. But thank you for saving me."

His thanks, coupled with his earlier apology, unbearable. Shame. Guilt. Turned away.

Grabbed her Company phone, one burner. The knife. "I'll be back."

Watching, he laughed, causing pain. "Oww. Oww. I knew...you were...going to say that." She heard the words, closing the door.

In the van, the shaking claims her. Chuck's pain, residual effects of the meds, whatever the spies pumped him with, preventing full comprehension, preventing questions. Dangerous. He sees things. Even drugged, in pain. Sees.

_I can't let him get a good look at me. _

She had work to do and needed to do it fast. Van started.

Driving away, she glanced at the rear of the van. Shovel and pick. Still there.

Burial tools. Reminder.

She had chosen the motel not just for its physical layout, the detached cottages. Also, knew the general area.

More than once, she had been there. With her father. _Los Padres National Forest. _She drove toward Santa Barbara.

Knew people there. The wrong kind of people. Just the people she needed.

* * *

A/N: I'm on the road starting tomorrow. Posting may be more sporadic for a while; I will have intermittent access to the Internet.

Thoughts?

(Guest Reviewer Jace: I have every intention of finishing this. I've begun 27 stories, 26 are Complete. This is the only one not Complete. Remember, though, you help the cause by reviewing it, at least once in a while. Encouragement like today's is most appreciated. Thanks!)


	7. Cost of Living

A/N: One from the road...

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Seven: Cost of Living

* * *

Sunrise.

Driving. Arranged a late check-out at check-in. No one should disturb Chuck. He would hurt until she got back. Over-the-counter painkillers not enough, not even by handfuls. Hurt. Thinking about it. He would hurt.

Hurt until she got back.

Her feet, cold.

Burner phone out, in hand. On. Untraceable. Graham's caution used against him.

Still knew the number, Burbank, after all these years. A man. Some kind of a man. Powerful, connected, deadly, perverse. But one-stop shopping. Could do what she needed.

The fat man. The talker.

A final con, her father had claimed. The next con was always the final con.

The con was big. _Big score_. Few and far between, those. Needed resources, help. Went to the fat man. _Gabber the Fuck_ — people called the fat man that. Not to his face, his chins. Deadly mistake.

Father's con worked. But Gabber demanded more than his agreed-upon share. Not just cash. _Her_. Just seventeen, literally unkissed. Too much movement, town to town. Too much shame, wrong to wrong. No steady friends, never, never a boyfriend. Afraid to get close.

Close. Her mother — _Emma_ — hadn't said that name to me in years — died in childbirth. Birthday Deathday, party wake. Her mother the assassin's first victim on arrival. The assassin a fatal entrance wound, entering the world. Leaving the womb. Exit wound. _Which? Both?_

Earliest memories: her father, looking at her, seeing double. Her, the little girl, and his dead wife. And so, every look, every hug, haunted, divided, never full, whole-hearted. He loved her, in his way, but could not forgive her. Unforgiven.

Little, she had not understood. Still did not understand. _Original sin?_ Guilty before acting. Damned. Sentence first, verdict afterward. _Ice Queen, Red Queen_. "_To see Nobody. And at that distance too. Why, it's as much as_ I _can do to see real people, by this light." White King._

The assassin's coming-to-life caused her mother's going-from-life. Pregnancy terminated in termination, terminal.

_Can't bear it._ Pushed the afterbirth of her childhood back down. The memories. Shame. Guilt.

But the memory of Gabber…

...Gabber wanted more than his share. Demanded more. Demanded her. Coveted her. Offered her father all the cash. An exchange. For one night.

Standing in Gabber's dank, acrid office. In tennis shoes, no socks. Realizing what he wanted. Bone-deep dread. _No!_

Her father, silent, calculating. _How much was I worth?_ He finally said _no_.

A long tense moment, Gabber wiping the spittle from his chin, handkerchief. Laughed and kept his larger-than-agreed upon share. What remained no longer a Big Score. More hand to mouth, con half-life.

The assassin never forgot her father's figuring.

The thought of seeing Gabber again made her seasick. But he could do what she needed to be done. She called the fat man.

She was not seventeen anymore.

ooOoo

Not far from Gabber's, she found a convenience store. Novelty items, including clothes. Bought a UC Santa Barbara t-shirt for herself. A matching one for Chuck, and a UCSB sweatshirt and sweatpants for him. She had an eye for sizes. His.

Breakfast biscuits. A couple of cans of ginger ale. Some fresh fruit from a basket next to the register.

Put the items in the back of the van. Next to the shovel and pick.

Parked the van in the garage of the building Gabber owned. His office on top, penthouse. Two men met her, searched her. Took the gun, the knife, the phone. An old black Camry parked nearby. The men handed her a set of keys. Waited.

She got the convenience items from the van. Clothes and food. Put them in the trunk of the Camry. Left up the lid. Got the shovel and pick and added them. Shut it.

The two men watched, led her to the elevator, and it climbed to Gabber the Fuck.

ooOoo

Off the elevator, stepped back in time. Ago.

The huge office the same. Dank, acrid. The stench of Gabber. Massive oak desk, more a ship than office furniture. Behind it, the fat man. _The only change? Fatter._

Fat the last time she saw him. Sideshow fat. A fat man who had eaten another fat man. He was fatter.

His chin, red and raw. A condition — excessive salivation. _Hypersalivation_. Constant drool. Omnipresent handkerchief to wipe it away. He drooled as she walked the distance to the desk. His eyes traveled her.

"Jenny Burton, as I live and breathe. And so nicely filled out. Nicely. All the promises of youth fulfilled, I see. Rounded and firm. _Delicious_. Yes, absolutely and most delicious." Wipe. "I trust you found the automobile for which you traded?" His words dripped drool.

She nodded.

He looked at her as marks often looked at her. Hungry. But actually drooling, his damp red chin shiny. The glow of the desk lamp. Light sliced and dimmed by lowered blinds.

On the desk, medicine bottles. An envelope. He followed her gaze to them.

"And, yes, most certainly, the painkillers and antibiotics. Both strong. And the IDs you asked for. No picture IDs, since you supplied no pictures. But credit cards, library cards, enough to be…credible. The man's name we chose was Carmichael. Charles Carmichael."

Blinked but nodded. "Good."

He looked at her again. The scrubs. The bloodstain on the hem. "You must be about your father's business. But with an edge, eh? _Jack Burton and Daughter, Inc._? Red Ink?" Wet, fat chortle.

"Something like that."

"Still practically wordless. Fascinating. Ever so. A woman with so much to offer, profound gifts…" — wipe — "but who gives nothing. Not even words. Semantic hoarding." Artificial emphasis first syllable, final word.

Stared at each other. He drooled. A glint in his eye. Dread, down to her shoes.

"You do not seem to be injured, Jenny. _Jen-if-fer. Jen-ny_. But there is blood on you." Wipe. "You ask for ID for a man, a tall man with brown hair and brown eyes," Gabber was looking at a sheet of paper taken up from the desk, notes, "so I am assuming that someone you…care for…is hurt. I cannot imagine you coming to me except, shall we say, _in extremis_? We parted, not so much on bad terms as a refusal of _preferred terms_."

She was seventeen again.

His glint became a faceful of leer, undisguised and demanding. "Terminology, so much hangs from each word, eh, my dear? My dear. — So, my thought is that you are going to be willing to pay…_extra_. _In extremis. _I fear that time has cost me the ability to…pluck…such ripe fruit as you. But I can still taste it. You. So, pay me the money we agreed to on the phone, _and kiss me_, and you may have all you have asked for." His chin was glistening. The smile above it, expectant, arrogant, disgusting. Those were the smiles of her world. Not Chuck's smile.

Chuck's smile. Alien. Beamed in.

Kiss him. Gabber the Fuck. _No_.

Chuck was hurting.

She needed Chuck. Needed him alive. Needed him alive to get to Graham. Needed him alive now so she could kill him later.

Needed him to stop hurting. To stop the hurting. _Yes._

She edged around the vast desk to the mass of Gabber, numbing herself. His chin was wet now, no wipe. He licked his thick lips. His chair ran over with him, spilled over the edges. Too many scoops, too small a cone.

She leaned in and put her lips on his damp, cold lips.

His hand shot up, fast, and pressed against the back of her head. Rough, fat, spongy tongue wormed hard into her mouth. Drool now on her chin. Shared. Wet, her lips, her chin. She pushed him away, gagging. Bile. Spat it on his shirt, his tie.

Ignored it, staring hungrily, gulping down her reaction, her disgust his sweetmeat.

"Oh, you are as delicious as I anticipated. How glorious." Smacked his lips, his chin so wet it dripped. Wipe. He held the damp handkerchief to his nose. Inhaled. "Delicious. Tasty. I trust it was as good for you as it was for me?"

She gagged again. His laugh a sea of ripples behind the ship of his desk.

Still laughing — as she gathered her things, dropped money on the desk, and went back to the elevator. Reaching up, free hand, back of it, she wiped her face, wiped her hand on the scrubs.

Could smell the fat man on her.

Descended.

ooOoo

Driving again. Kiss buried in her memory. Memorial garden. Graveyard. So many plots.

And then it occurred to her.

_Sloppy! First, I miss him…then I forget…_

...A landline in the motel room. Of course, there was. Chuck could make a call. Might have made a call.

She pushed the pedal down. Rushing, even faster than already.

At the motel, she parked the car and ran to the door. Keyed it open.

Chuck was there. He turned to look at her.

Beneath her, the earth. It heaved a sigh. Profound. She could feel it. Still there. Safe.

And then. Chuck's face. Grey. Sweaty. Anguished. His hospital gown top soaked. Pain-killers spilled on the covers.

Still, no good reason, lost in pain, he grinned at her. Seeing her. "Um…The pain's...killing me, Kyle. Killing. Really hurting." Cough. "And if you don't help me, I'm going to be stretched out...in...in more than sweat in a second."

She ran to him. Sarah ran to him.

Hurt. Need.

* * *

A/N: This ends the first arc of our story, "Original Sin". The next arc, "Lying Promises", begins in Chapter Eight.

On the road. Love to hear from you as I go.


	8. Lull

A/N: One more from the road. — We begin our second arc, "Lying Promises".

* * *

****Burying Dirt****

Chapter Eight: Lull

* * *

Sarah sat, cabin porch, sun above the horizon. Empty chair, Chuck's, beside hers.

Two days at the cabin. Two days with Chuck.

Moved him from the motel the afternoon after Gabber. Trying, that move, and painful. Reclined the seat for Chuck, fed him the heavy-duty painkillers. Still, it hurt him.

Dozed and meandered in and out of consciousness.

"Take care of me?" He asked at one point. She trembled.

Cabin, hers. Years since she had seen it, been there. On the title, an alias of her father's. Won in a poker game. Spent a part of her sixteenth summer, before and during and after her birthday, there. _Loved_ it. Not a word she used. Idyllic ripe August days, heavy and tangy and hanging low on branches.

Father made her a present of it. Later, as a new agent, an untraceable account to pay the taxes. Stopped by once a year or so, but never stayed. That August girl was now an October woman, leaves off the trees, fallen, brown.

Cabin off a long, barely passable road. Almost a mile. Chuck nearly passed out several times making the trek. Lots of stops. Him leaning on her, them both wearing their UCSB garb.

They had made it and Chuck had slept most of the first day. The second, he was awake. She fed him— stopped at a store on the way in, food, water, clothes, flashlight, newspapers. The last hidden from Chuck's sight.

Hungry the second day, and he asked her to break his midday painkiller in half. Gutting it out, he'd come to full consciousness. Pain bearable. Brown eyes clear. He had not asked her. Anything. But he looked at her, watched her. Kept trying to get a good look at her.

She kept moving, kept her head down. Tried not to meet his eyes.

That evening, a bucketful of hot water and she washed him. Both embarrassed. Chuck, hospital gown across his lap. It had risen as she bathed him. Mortified, he looked away, chattering without attention about inventory days at the Buy More. Looking away from her, he missed the flush on her face, her eyes attracted to the gown.

The assassin would not share Chuck's bed. The memory of waking, holding him in the motel. Memory. No repeat. He the bed, she, the couch. Rising gown raising her temperature, the bed. A bad idea. Still thought of it, of him and of the gown. Over and over. Turned and tried to find a comfortable spot between couch lumps. No cadaver, Chuck. No cadaver.

Alive. Warm and warming.

So long since. So long since she. So long since Sarah had been. Alive. Since her temperature had risen, _risen_, a cat's purr low in her abdomen.

She stood up, blanket draped around her shoulders, a shroud. Flashlight and newspaper. Outside. Porch. Cooler. Thought traveled in another direction.

Newspapers revealed a manhunt for Chuck. Confusion about the hospital, a body on the landing. No security camera footage. Cameras out. Sarah grinned darkly. Graham working against Graham. His killers protected her inadvertently. Identity of Ryker still unknown.

No mention of bodies in the _Forest, _far away.

One article, ending with interview of Chuck's sister.

"We can't understand. My brother is a good man. He was shot. Someone took him from the hospital not long after his operation. Who would do such things?"

_Who? Me. I shot him. I took him. I have him. What am I doing with him? _She needed to know about the hacking.

Sat in the dark a long time, pondering.

Pondering. Black night greyed to dawn, she dressed silently. Chuck still asleep. She walked to the car, retrieved the shovel and pick. Back to the cabin, put the burial tools on the porch.

Sat back down. Sunrise. Rise. Sun rising.

Sarah sat, cabin porch, sun above the horizon.

ooOoo

Breakfast. Her mind circling. Stirring oats. Burial tools. Rising gowns. Smile through a sight. Shaking. Take care of Chuck.

Take care.

Chuck walked in. She spun.

"Chuck, what are you doing up?"

He was moving slowly, grimaces matched to small steps. "I need to move. The wound's healing; you said so. Soreness has to be worked out." He looked at her, dressed. "Did you sleep?"

"Yes. No. Not exactly. Sit down, breakfast is ready."

He sat. She bowled two bowls of oatmeal. Sat with him at their table. Chuck dipped his spoon, blew on it, took a bite.

"Good."

Oatmeal in silence.

"Kyle…Sarah…How did you get involved in this? Who shot me in the first place? What's this all about?" The questions, at last. He glanced back down into his bowl as he asked he last.

Hard to lie to him. Getting harder.

Rising gown. Warmer.

"The spies who were after you…they were rogue. I was sent to stop them."

Chuck ate another bite, grinned, his brown eyes bright. "So, I was right. You are Kyle."

Taste of the lie turning the oatmeal to grit. "Tell me about this movie?" _Change topics_.

Chuck's grin intensified. Sarah shifted in her seat, low purr, lower. _Pay no attention._

"So, it opens with this utterly compelling dystopian vision…Skulls crushed under cyborg feet…"

Caught up in Chuck's enthusiasm. His brilliant narrative. Seeing it all in her mind.

And then, dismay. She was miscast. _I'm the Terminator, not Kyle. _Stood up abruptly, carrying her bowl to the sink. Oatmeal threatened to rise, stomach circling.

Machine. Cyborg. Inhuman. Wrapped in flesh, enfleshed, but not flesh. Something else. Something alien. Cyborg Sarah.

Not Kyle. The cabin hurt. She could feel it in her chest.

"Sarah, are you okay?"

"Yes, fine. Tell me the rest later."

He dimmed. "All right. Can I ask you something?"

She shrugged.

"How long have you been a spy?"

"A long time. Forever."

"Did you always want to be a spy?"

Surprised, Sarah sat. Took a moment. "No, it never crossed my mind. I just ended up one."

"Do you still want to be a spy?" A tincture of urgency in the question. _Why?_

"I…I don't know…". Sarah did not know. Knew nothing else. _Nothing beyond_.

_How did it start?_ Standing on the ledge. Dead flies. Moth. Dead. Two, one, zero. Months of gnawing dissatisfaction, gnawing. Burned down. Socket. Nothing beyond. On the ledge. Caring that she had stopped caring. Tried to stop caring that she did not care. Knots inside, knots. Thoughts like locks and dams. Rising, spilling over, pooling. Feelings creeping into view, refused to hide. Maybe Graham knew, sensed it.

The man, Chuck, in her sights. Smile. Nice smile. Really nice smile. Cared. In sights. At sights. Feelings through a scope? Caring in crosshairs.

Perfect record. A resume of wrong. Each box checked. Targets in boxes. The assassin in a box. Graham's Jack-in-the-Box. Crank, crank. Wonky music. Jump out. Death. Dancing Graham's tune.

"Why do you care, Chuck?"

He studied oatmeal, bowl. "Just wondering."

"Why would you come to the notice of spies? How does a Buy More employee end up shot by an…assassin?"

He dropped his spoon in the oatmeal. A glassy sound as it hit the edge of the bowel.

He gave her another of his long looks. After two days of dodging, she made herself subject. Subject to the look. His look made her feel like a subject, not an object. Grammatical magic in his brown eyes. 'Sarah' changing parts. Parts of speech. Way of being-in-the-words, of being-in-the-world.

Change? Nothing beyond. Nothing beyond?

Watching his eyes, she saw the resolve to lie form. Then she saw it recede. Trust. Replaced it. He trusted her. Believed he could trust her.

Shovel and pick outside. Burial tools.

"We've got to figure out what to do, Chuck. I need to know the truth."

He nodded. Swallowed. "Who shot me, Sarah, who? Do you know?"

Nodded. "Yes, I know…who. Who she was."

"_Was? She?_"

Another nod. "She's...dead, Chuck."

"Dead? Did you...kill her too?"

"That's a long story."

He winced.

"Sorry."

"No, not you. My shoulder."

"Do you need another pill?"

He shook his head. "No, I'll try to hold out. Hate the way those things make me feel. All oily inside. Like the Tin Man pumped full of lubricant, greasy."

"Tin Man?"

"_The Wizard of Oz_?"

"Oh, I did see that once. I was little. Scary flying monkeys."

"Yeah. You've seen it _once_?"

"Once."

"Not sure that's possible. But then, you are the Impossible Girl."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Help me outside? I could use some sunlight. I'm getting pasty."

"Okay. Then we talk?"

"Then we talk."

She helped him up and out. He lowered himself gingerly into one of the chairs and looked at Sarah, past her.

"Why do we have a shovel and a pick?"

* * *

A/N: I've really enjoyed responses to the story. Hope to hear more. If you are reading silently, how about breaking the silence?


	9. Sunday school

A/N: Still the early stages of our second arc. We learn more about our central characters.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Nine: Sunday School

* * *

No response.

Chuck asked again: "Why do we have a pick and a shovel?"

With her father, traveling, conning, life had been hard, hand-to-mouth. Grifting was not a profitable life. Short of food or of gas, or out of time, they had eked out a life. A kind of life. Big scores were not just infrequent, they were rare. Always hungry, always desperate, days blurred into days, cons into cons, one long con-game day.

To eat, to buy gas, their most frequent con, the Sunday Morning Special. (Father's term.) A dirty dress for Sarah in the trunk of the car, kept dirty. Changed into it, her father rubbed dirt on her face and hands, his own. Then, carefully a few minutes late, arrived for Sunday worship at some small church, everyone turning to look. As planned. Poor beautiful blonde child, blue eyes bright in dirty face, struggling father, laborer's hands.

Sat meekly in the back. Her father's head bowed in prayer, hers in shame, but looking prayerful too. Pretend, the prayer. Service ended, her father shook hands and reluctantly indicated their need, particularly her hunger. By afternoon, they had typically been fed and re-supplied, handed cash, sometimes a generous amount.

The shame of it. One unexpected consequence was the stories. Lessons and sermons. Her head full of them, bits and pieces. Still. _New Testament_ stories. Miracles. The lame walked. The blind saw. The dead were raised. _Lazarus._

Frightening Old Testament tales: blood and death and slaughter and betrayal. _Samson and Delilah_. The assassin preferred the_ New Testament_ stories but hers felt like an _Old Testament _story_._

Chuck: "Sarah?"

Abraham leading his son, only son, Isaac, up the mountain. To sacrifice him. To kill him. On God's orders. _A sanctioned sacrifice? _The boy, carrying wood for the sacrifice, puzzled. Nothing to sacrifice, no lamb to the slaughter.

Isaac: "Where is the lamb for the burnt-offering?"

Abraham's answer, despair and faith intermingled, fear and trembling. Under unbearable orders. Mission clear, mission impossible. "My son, God will himself provide the burnt-offering."

Abraham's wife, a Sarah, Isaac's mother.

Chuck, lamb to slaughter, once more. "Sarah?"

She trembled, her reflection passed. "Those? Oh, those are just…here. Been here."

"I didn't see them when we arrived…"

"No? But you were exhausted, on pain-killers."

He gazed at the tools then back at her. Shrugged.

"Huh. True, but I remember that walk. Every painful step. Or I thought I did." He shook his head. "Well, if we have to stay, I guess we could use them to plant a small garden, grow something." He chuckled.

The thought dizzied her. The reversal.

Sobered, Chuck went on. "My sister, her name is Ellie, she must be terrified for me. I've been so out of it...so confused…I need to let her know I'm alive. Okay? Can I do that? When can I do that?"

_Delay. _"Tell me how you ended up on rogue spies' radar. Then we'll think about that."

"Alright," — reluctant sigh — "but I can only tell you why, not how."

"Fine, Chuck. Why?"

He reached up and rubbed his shoulder. "I suppose I knew something like this could happen. It all starts with my mom and dad."

"How? Why?"

"Just as Ellie turned eighteen — I was fifteen — they disappeared. Just…gone. No word. My dad was a computer whiz, a professor at UCLA. Mom worked for an insurance firm, traveled a lot around the southwest, an adjuster. At least, that's what I grew up believing."

"It wasn't true?"

"No. I guess I got my dad's computer gene, genie, genius...because I've always been…good with them. As I got older, especially just before I went to college, I developed a reputation as a hacker." He paused. "Or, rather, I became a hacker with a reputation. No one knew I was the hacker, but plenty of people knew of the hacker, the Piranha. I didn't steal, not once, but I just liked proving to myself that no one could design software I could not outsmart. And, a couple of times, I found out that companies were cheating, double-dealing, and the Piranha...exposed them. But when I went to college, I quit. I occasionally searched for my parents, but I never turned up any trace; I had no idea where to look." He studied the ground near the porch.

"But a few months ago, I was helping my sister clean out our house, our old house, the one we lived in with our parents. We're selling it. Just sold it, actually. Anyway, in the basement, there was an old suitcase of my mom's. In the inside pocket was a photograph of her and my father. They were young, very much in love." He looked at Sarah. "Taken when they were dating. Our parents never told us a lot about themselves then, how they met, that sort of stuff. On the back of the photo, in my dad's hand, was a notation. 'Love you so much. I'm always with you. — Virginia.' We did not know our parents had ever been to Virginia."

Chuck stopped. "That got me thinking. I went back to that suitcase, we hadn't gotten rid of it yet, and I looked at it more closely. It had a hidden compartment. In it were expired passports, all expired long ago, all with photographs of my mother, all with different names."

Sarah gasped. "What?"

"Right. Spy. I figured out that the building behind my parents in the photograph was a building near CIA headquarters. I finally had an idea of where to look, at least for mom."

The assassin was reeling. "Your mother was a spy? Like me?"

Chuck gave her an inscrutable look. "Yes, a spy. Maybe like you."

"What do you mean, 'maybe'?"

"You're a hero. My hero. And, although I loved my mom, I don't think she was a hero…"

The cabin ached around Sarah. "I'm no hero, Chuck. No one in the CIA is, or precious few. The moment you cite…calculations…to justify yourself, you've conceded the point. The Greater Good is at best an excuse for wrong-doing; it can't make wrong-doing right-doing…"

He stared at her. "You've given this some thought."

"I try not to, but, yeah…Go on, your mom?"

"I limbered up my hacker's hands," right hand up, flexing his long, adroit fingers, "and I found a place to work. I 'borrowed' some forgotten repairs from the Buy More, built up the necessary computing power, and I was ready. I hacked the CIA."

A moment to shift her attention, his hand to his words. "You did _what_?"

"I got in." His face darkened. "I wish now I hadn't, and not just because some psycho shot me for it."

The assassin dropped her eyes. Swallowed.

"I got in. I had some of mom's aliases. Used them to work my way to her. I found her. Code name, _Frost_."

The assassin blinked. Tried not to. But Chuck saw. "That means something to you?"

"Rumors. Later. Go on."

"I found out what my mother did for a…living. Not insurance. Espionage. I knew her as a devoted wife and mother — gone a lot, but _there_ when she was there, you know?"

_No. _Sarah nodded.

"But the spy. Frost. Her early record was…amazing in one sense, …appalling in another. Killing for a living. _My mom!_ She specialized for a long time in…wet work. I know you know what that means."

Direct look, right into her eyes. Nodded again.

"Mom, Frost, stopped that around the time she got pregnant with Ellie. At least, I could find nothing more in her file. The wet work stopped. And, then, I found dad too. In her file — at the time the wet work stopped. He was a CIA scientist, his work at UCLA was disguised work for the CIA. In fact, mom was sent as his handler. That, it turns out, is how they met. " He gave Sarah a glance.

"For a couple of years before they disappeared, Dad was working on a top-secret project, _Omaha. _The project was overseen by a CIA Assistant Director named Langston Graham, now the Director of the CIA. You must know who he is."

"Yes."

"Well, let me give you the **TLDR **version. _Omaha _was sealed tight. Tighter than anything I had ever tried to hack. It took me a long time, and I couldn't risk long or frequent attempts. My backdoor was open, but _Omaha was_ the nested final box in a Chinese box puzzle. Getting into it required risking exposure, but I did it. I got _Omaha. _Copied all the files. But there was so much, so tangled. Documents missing. Others redacted into incomprehensibility. I am…I was…still trying to work it out. I'm sure it my parents' disappearance is connected. The project was an attempt to create superspies by means of computer enhancement. It sounds comic book-like, but that's the truth…"

"_Omaha_? The name was a whisper for a time in Langley, but I know nothing about it, really. Just a name."

"And Frost?" Chuck asked. Intense.

"A name. Legendary agent. Best woman agent in the history of the Company."

Chuck nodded. "I'm not surprised, given what I know. — So, that's what I did. I hacked the CIA. I copied information no one was supposed to ever find. Are you going to arrest me now, or whatever spies do to miscreants?"

Despite it all, the assassin grinned. "Miscreants?" Headshake. "No, Chuck, I'm not…arresting…you."

"Why not?"

"Because…I'm not. It's not…safe. Not sure what's going on in Langley." _True but misleading. _"We need to find the copies of _Omaha. _Where are they?"

Chuck stared at his feet. "In the Buy More."

"What? Where? Why?"

"Always safest to hide things in plain sight. More or less."

"More or less?"

"There's a…" Chuck stopped. "Well, let's just say it's there, hidden, but not…"

"You don't trust me?"

He pursed his lips. "I owe you my life, Sarah. _Kyle_." He grinned crookedly, but it became self-conscious. "But that copy is the only real bargaining chip I have…Knew I could put myself in danger. I trusted you…enough to tell you where it is — sort of is. The general location."

Fought back feelings. "And you made no other copies?"

"No."

"Why not?"

He shrugged, frustrated. "I want answers. That's all. To know, you know?"

"But there's always a cost, Chuck. Especially knowledge like that. Forbidden knowledge. And you exposed wrong-doing in the past...A cost."

_They send me, Chuck, and others like me. Ryker. To end you. _Sat back, the assassin, glancing at the shovel and pick from the corner of her eye. _Graham orders me to kill you. _

_Sacrifice._

Chuck breathed out. Long breath.

"I know. I do. Now, for sure." Rubbed his shoulder.

Seasick on the porch. "We need _Omaha_, Chuck. Once we have it…" …_I can deal with Graham._

Rest of the day. Plotted. A return to the Buy More. A means of contacting Ellie. Chuck told the assassin stories. Of Frost, the mother. The assassin knew more about Frost. More than she admitted. Constant comparisons to Frost, early years. The Ice Queen, Frost's Second Coming. Better, deadlier. Nothing the assassin knew consistent with the woman Chuck remembered. Loved. His assassin-mother. The assassin never knew Frost's real name. Did not want to know.

Chuck's mom.

Assassin to wife to mother.

Change. Did Frost change that much? Was it all an act?

_Change? How was it possible? _

Sarah had no clue.

Chuck napped late in the afternoon, finally taking a pain-killer. Sarah used the pick to loosen some ground, the shovel to dig a hole. — _Where is the lamb? _

* * *

A/N: Thoughts?

Happy New Year!


	10. Left Hand, Right Hand

A/N: One thing readers will have realized by now. The trick to reading this is that you often have to make Sarah's thoughts make the sense they make, think them _for_ or _with_ her. That makes the story peculiarly immersive if the reader is willing to do it. It makes the story difficult if the reader is not, since significant stretches of it will seem word salad. It's not, but…

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Ten: Left Hand, Right Hand

* * *

Sarah went inside, finished. _It is finished. _Deep sense of dislocation, disorientation. Loss. Chuck abed, still napping, the sun sinking.

She stopped. His curls against the pillow, face peaceful. Resting in peace. Purr low again, insistent, almost audible.

Into the bathroom. Shoes off. Socks. Washed her hands. _Pilate. Pilate's wife: "Don't have anything to do with that innocent man." _Dirty water in the sink, red clay, almost the color of blood. Face washed, streaked with clay, now clean. Looked at herself.

Sarah in the mirror.

All night, all day, bathing Chuck, the rising gown. All night. All day. Fluctuations of mood, feelings, but that, _constant_. So long. His looks at her, glances. His response to her hands. Rising.

So long. So long, Chuck. So long.

She climbed onto the bed slowly, one leg at a time. Straddled him. He stirred. Eyes flickered open. Surprise. No fear. Good.

Settled her weight on him, trapping him beneath her. His eyes widened, unsure. Reaching down, she lifted the hem of her UCSB t-shirt. His eyes, up, from her exposed abdomen and handle of the gun, to her eyes. Searching.

"Sarah?"

"Chuck, am I...hurting you?"

"No."

Lifted the t-shirt, his sharp inhalation. Gun handle handled, drawn from the waist of her pants, leaned forward, put on the nightstand. Chuck watched. He stirred. Beneath her. Stirred. Lengthened. Good.

So long, Chuck.

She wiggled on him. Felt his response. Unmistakable.

"Sarah?"

"Chuck."

He reached for her, a little at a time, his eyes consulting hers, veto power. _No veto_. He cupped his hand around her bra and they both caught their breath.

"I can't move, Sarah, not much."

Smile. "No need. I'll take care of you." _Trust me, Chuck. _

He smiled, dropped his hand. Climbed off him carefully. Pulled down his sweatpants. Slid her pants off. Back to her spot atop him.

_Cause him no pain. So much desire. So much. So urgent. _Slow, slowly. Slow. She positioned him, herself. Lowered herself, took him.

Up, down. Excruciating slowness, sensations elongated. _So long, Chuck. _Excruciating, wonderful. Enlivening, wonderful. The cabin, the woods purring around her, him.

"Am I hurting you?"

"Oh, God, _no_…"

She unhooked her bra, brought her arms together, shrugged it off. The darkening of his eyes overwhelmed her but she made herself stay slow. Down, up. Slow. Chuck looked into her eyes, held them as she held him inside her. Up, down. Slow. Ever. So. Slow. Tight, tightening, tighter.

Suddenly, she shattered, disintegrated and reintegrated in the blinking of an eye, then did it again. Again. She felt him, the sudden heat inside her. Apart and together, she came apart and came together. With him.

Collapsed forward, to the side, sobbing, tears hot and copious. No stopping. Sobbing and sobbing. Chuck's hand, her bare skin. Whispers of comfort.

She wept for so long. Exhausted when it stopped. Spent. Doubly spent.

Outside, the hole she dug, long but narrow and shallow, filled. Long enough for the shovel, the pick. Long enough. Dirt stamped down.

Stood on the edge after digging the hole. Threw the burial tools inside. Kicked the dirt in. Buried the shovel, pick. Stamped on them, the dirt. Burying the burial tools.

"Sarah?"

Soft. Hardly sounding like herself. "What, Chuck?"

"Are you okay?"

"No, but I'm better."

Rolled the lower half of her off the lower half of him. Faced him.

"I want to kiss you so much," — he tried to move, grimaced — "but I can't do it."

Brought her lips to his.

Kissed away the memory of Gabber, the acrid memory. Replaced it with the presence of Chuck. He kissed her back, such sweetness. Never such a kiss before. When it ended, Chuck's eyes stayed closed. His hand found hers. She closed her eyes. Close against him.

So long, Chuck. Now so alive. Eyes closed, sleep.

ooOoo

Asleep.

_Looking through the sight. High relative-brightness. Chuck in the crosshairs. Smiled. Nice Smile. Aimed. Right hand tight on the grip cap, finger light on the trigger. Squeeze. Smile in scope. Right hand on the target. Left hand on the forestock. Aimed. _

_Squeeze more, a caress. Practiced motion. Automatic. Deadly. No mistakes. No miss. Right finger to crucial point. Left hand dips. Dips. Target changes. No headshot. Shoulder, perfect placement of the shot. _

_Missed. Hit what she intended. Missed what she believed she intended to hit. Down, down he went down. But not dead. Wounded, not dead. _

"_Don't let your right hand know what your left hand is doing."_

_Quotation backward. But was it possible either way, right-left, left-right? Such self-division? Side-to-side. The assassin's right hand? Sarah's left hand? The left-hand aiming hidden from the right-hand triggering. But the left hand strong enough only to save Chuck, not prevent the shot. _

_Still, I shot Chuck. I did. The man I just slept with._

Awake.

ooOoo

Chuck slept on. Sarah rose. Arose.

Put on her shirt and pants and walked outside. Dusk. Wood sounds. Sat down, porch. Limp in the chair. _How can I tell him? _— _Should have told him. Before. Before. That, oh my God, that._ But it would never have happened. Hate me.

Took what he gave but did not explain the terms. Not an assassin. Maybe. A thief. Fraud and swindle.

Have to tell.

Chuck came outside. Moving a little better. Smile like sunlight, radiant heat. Bent down, quick grimace. Smile back. A kiss. Sweet. Deeper. Her whole body responding, all of her. He pulled back, eyes tentative above his smile.

"That, what happened…"

She smiled. "Yes, that happened."

"And you're okay with…"

Quick kiss. "Okay."

"Good. Me too."

Hand soft and warm on her cheek. Her hand on his.

"Chuck, I…"

"I'm fine. I know I can't expect anything from you...You have another life, the CIA. This is just..._this_. I get it. But I will take it for as long as I can have it. _You_."

The resignation in his eyes. The desire. The daring hope.

"No, Chuck. I mean, yes. I mean, I have to…"

He moved from her, sat in the other chair. Looking at her.

Could not find words to tell him. He looked out, saw the disturbed earth.

"Are we...starting a garden?" Chuckle.

"No, um...no." No chuckle.

Turned to her. Puzzled. "So?"

"I buried some things."

Long stare. "Okay. Well, it's nice out here. But I guess we have to go back. We need to get _Omaha. _Get word to Ellie…"

"Yes."

"Do you think you can save me? Is there any way to get me out of the mess I've made?"

"I don't know, Chuck."

"But once you do, ...you will be gone?"

No answer.

Tell him or leave him.

Tell him and leave him.

Save him. Then leave.

For the best.

Burned. Burnt out. Burnt offering. Done.

A few days of a good man. Then she would disappear.

All she could hope for. The best she could.

ooOoo

Darkness gathered around them.

Chuck's voice, his face hidden by the dark. "Sarah, could we…again?"

"Yes, absolutely...I was hoping...hoping you would ask."

His hand found hers. In the dark. Left hand, right hand.

* * *

A/N: On we go. Thoughts? I love to hear from you.


	11. A Lifetime's Worth

A/N: Seat belts? Good.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Eleven: A Lifetime's Worth

* * *

Sarah, the assassin, Sarah rolled to Chuck's side again.

She had lost count of. Had not kept count of. Did not give a damn about the count of.

_This. _

Whatever this was. _Never before. Never knew. Forbidden knowledge? Withheld from me. By me. _Before, time spent in bed with a man, a negative pleasure, the release of a state of corporeal tension. That was all. Corporeal.

Corpses. Cadavers. Bodies and parts. Gross anatomy. A dead letter.

After all, done, lingered upon, the negative pleasure, the tension released, it trailed depression and disappointment. So she was up, gone, sheets still warm, focused on something else, no lingering. Depression and disappointment still trailed her; she paid them no mind. Tried to. Not pay them mind.

Left it behind, surrendered, years ago. Cost high, benefit low.

But that was — _ago_. This, _this_ was now, new. Wholly unprecedented. No cost/benefit analysis, analysis a category mistake. Wholly new. Enjoyment, fruition, emotion somehow subtle yet adamantine, durable. Chuck from her head to her toes, side to side and inside out. All Chuck. Hardly imagine how it would be when he could participate more fully. How could it be better?

But his eyes, on hers, on her. She saw herself, Sarah, mirrored, his eyes. Not a body. Not parts. Whole. His responsiveness to her, total. The world purred.

The whole, wide world.

ooOoo

Later, lights off, her right hand resting on his chest. He picked it up, extended the index finger, kissed it. Laughter, both. He opened his mouth and took her finger into it, his teeth gentle on each side. Felt the warmth of his tongue as her finger rested lightly in place.

Her trigger finger. The assassin jerked, finger out.

"Sarah, did I…?"

Stab of regret. Reflex action. Push upward, kissed his lips. "Sorry, it was nothing…"

He squeezed her shoulders. Thoughtful for a moment. "I was just thinking about _The Terminator._"

Stab of panic. "The movie?"

"Yeah, well, and the sequel, _Terminator 2: Judgment Day._"

"What about it?"

"Well, the Terminator is destroyed at the end of the first movie. But he comes back...—Well, not him, um...it..._exactly. _But another token of the same type. A T-800, but revamped. It comes back to protect Sarah Connor and her son — she had Kyle's baby, a boy, after Kyle died and the first T-800 was destroyed. It comes back to save them from a more advanced cyborg, a T-1000…"

"Wait, what happened to the T-_900_?"

Chuck laughed. "No one knows. Maybe Skynet counted only by even hundreds…"

"Wait, Skynet?"

"The evil robot overlords…"

"Right. But wait, Sarah had a baby? Kyle's baby?"

"Yeah, I guess when I was telling you I kinda skipped over that part. The mushy stuff. Ouch!" Sarah pinched him. "They spend a night together."

"That was kinda...quick, right?" She heard him gasp, rubbed his chest, rubbed away any sting in the words. "Remember, I started this, Chuck…"

"I'll never forget." Long moment in the dark. "So, um, yeah, it's kinda quick but not for Kyle. You see, he's a time-traveler. He's had this photo of Sarah and stories about her. Fell in love...with her at a spatial and temporal distance. But she feels the same. They make love and later, when the photograph Kyle will carry is taken, she says 'We loved a lifetime's worth'."

Silence. Sarah's hand motionless but still on Chuck.

"I…" Chuck's voice squeaked a bit, choked, "I like that line best in a movie full of one-liners."

More silence.

"Did you think of that because of us, now, Chuck. Is this our lifetime's worth?"

He shifted slightly in the bed. "No. Yes. This is just...It means…I need to tell you..."

Chest ached, hers. She could feel his chest-ache in his voice. "Shhh. One mission at a time, Chuck." In the quiet dark, she yawned despite the ache, the heightened moment. "Tomorrow we leave and we try to save you."

"Right." His voice was small.

"So, you never told me. Kyle Reese. He dies saving Sarah?"

"Yeah, he does."

"But in the sequel, the terminator, the good one, the T-800, saves Sarah and her son? From the T-1000?"

"Yeah, he does. But in the end, he allows himself to be lowered into a vat of molten steel, and melts, disappears."

Sadness in waves. Vats of molten unhappiness. Bitter endings. Crawls closer to Chuck, unable to bear space between them.

_A lifetime's worth_.

Holding Chuck, Sarah, the assassin, Sarah slept.

ooOoo

Morning. Sunrise.

A sound. Rustle. Snap. Rustle.

Someone outside the cabin. Not Chuck. In her arms.

A foot on the porch.

The assassin is up. Soundlessly. Gun from the nightstand. She is wearing her UCSB t-shirt. Nothing else. Not even socks, her feet not cold as usual.

Another foot on the porch. Step toward the door.

Chuck rolls over, still sleeping. His hand searching, somnambulist, for her.

Another step.

No time to move Chuck, no place to hide him.

Another step. By the door now.

The door, locked. No sound from the back.

Back door.

The assassin turns, moves on bare feet, cat on velvet. To the door. Open, outside. Hears the sound of the front doorknob turned.

Begins to run, still soundless, a gift. Around the cabin.

To the front. "Move and I kill you." Hissed.

A woman turned, hands up beside red hair. Soft laughter.

"Shit. Never have managed to sneak up on you." Smirk on her face, in her voice.

"_Carina_? What the hell?"

ooOoo

Before Carina can answer, the assassin reached her. Finger to her own lips. "Be _quiet_, please."

"Why?"

The assassin opened her mouth, silence, shook her head, pointed, porch chairs. "Sit. Tell me what you are doing here?" Voice low, distracted-sounding.

Carina sat. Tilted her red head. Jeans and boots, a black t-shirt under a green leather jacket. Watched the assassin as the assassin pulled the t-shirt down around herself, unable to cover her long, bare legs.

"I heard, spy grapevine, that you were _burned_, that bastard Graham burned you. I was already in LA, but you didn't know that.

"Then, news of a shooting, victim stolen shortly after an operation, a dead man found in the building, on the stairs. People impersonating policemen and doctors. All in the papers. Naked bodies in state parks. All suggestive of...my...old pal, the Ice Queen."

Stomach lurched, a chill. "Don't call me that, Carina. But how are you _here_?"

"The one time you got drunk with me — I mean really, really drunk, not tipsy or pretend — you told me about this place. I figured you would walk it back, but I don't think you remembered, or…" — Carina lifted one perfectly plucked eyebrow — "you wanted me to know but didn't want to admit it, maybe even to yourself.

"So, when the manhunt went on with no result, I knew you'd gone to ground and this seemed the likely spot, given your...predicament. So, was I right? Do you have the victim? Did you bury him out here?"

A single head shake. Carina's wonderment. "You _were_ sent to...terminate him?"

"Hush, Carina. Hush, goddamn it…" Fierce whisper. "He might hear you."

Carina's eyes. From the assassin to the door. "He? He's still _alive_?" The door to the assassin. Carina whispered. "And you — bed-head and nothing but a t-shirt, a gun...and an all-over glow. Oh, Jesus, he's alive and...he's here, and...you're _fucking_ him."

"No, no, I'm not. Please be _quiet_."

Carina sat back, cat in the catbird seat. Wonderment eclipsed by a Cheshire grin. "I never thought...You haven't...Never, not since I've known...Jesus, Sarah, you're not _fucking_ him, you're…" Carina's grin disappeared little by little. Jaw slackened. She shook herself all over, a dog fresh from a hated bath. "You're _with _him."

"No, I'm...No. I'm helping him."

"But you're the one who shot him, right? The target."

The assassin grabbed Carina's hand, pulled her off the porch, a short distance into the woods. "Yes, I shot him. The target. But I missed."

"But you don't...miss."

"But I did."

Carina stepped back, looked at Sarah, t-shirted and barefooted. "Looks like the ricochet hit you, girl. _C'mon_, Sarah. I knew you'd crack eventually, have to find a post to scratch. Not natural, that icy celibacy thing you had going for so long…_Brrr_. Frigid. But spies, especially ones...like you...they don't fall in love. They don't even fall in _like. _An occasional f—, well, you know, a girl has her needs. Even you. But they certainly don't miss their targets then..._help _them." Carina stretched herself beyond her normal height. Towering. Unrighteous indignation.

The assassin glared at Carina. Slowly, Carina wilted. "Okay, okay, okay. Does your bed-buddy understand that he has a hole in him, courtesy of you, the woman whose hole...?"

"Shut up, Carina. No, he doesn't...I haven't...I can't. _Don't let him know_. And don't call him that. _Bed-buddy_. Don't. His name is Chuck."

Carina studied the assassin's face, disbelief. "Chuck. Yeah, I know. Newspapers."

Chuck's voice. The cabin. Tension in it. "Sarah? Sarah?"

Still glaring Carina into submission, the assassin answered. "Be there in just a second, Chuck."

Carina narrowed her eyes at Sarah's answer, the tone of it. A surprised, breathy laugh. "Well, shit, let's introduce us, huh?"

"Follow my lead," the assassin commanded. "Don't mess up. Don't mess this up for me, Carina." _I won't have it for long. Only so long, Chuck._ _A lifetime's worth._

Carina shook her head, mumbled, loud enough for the turning assassin to hear. "I thought only actual cats played with their food."

* * *

A/N: We're heading into the action of the second arc. Thoughts?


	12. Ménage à Trois

A/N: More story.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Twelve: _Ménage à Trois_

* * *

Toward the cabin porch, marching, Carina in her wake, the assassin.

Trailing disappointment.

A morning, that morning, to be with Chuck a _little_ longer. _Not long. Not so long_. More of _this_, of what had passed between them. A few more hours with a good man — before LA and the end's beginning. But one night was all she was given.

Kyle Reese. Sarah Connor.

One night.

More, still, than she had ever hoped for. _Be satisfied with what you've had with him. What you've stolen from him._

Chuck, standing, blanketed, from their bed, naked beneath the blanket.

"Sarah…?" Uncertainty. Gaped at Carina, closed the blanket around him. Carina's unfiltered _Mmmmmmm _from behind.

"Sarah?"

Perfunctory. "Chuck, this is Carina. An...old friend of mine." Clipped words, a helpless shrug, directed backward at Carina. Warning. _Don't mess this up._

Carina walked around Sarah. To Chuck.

"Soooo...Chuck, aren't you a long _suck_ of water…" Carina's hand out, a little lower than waist-high, not oriented for a handshake. Chuck grabbed it, pulled it up, shaking height, shook it.

"Um...hi, Carina, Chuck. I need to put on some clothes."

Carina's eyes climbed Chuck, a koala up a gum tree. "No need. I could just take mine off, join you or you two. A three-egg omelette for breakfast?" She smacked her lips.

Chuck turned blaze-red. Green flame-burned assassin. "Carina…" the assassin growled.

Mimicking the assassin's earlier helpless shrug, Carina smiled. "Just being polite. My experience is that clothes come off easier than they go on."

Still red, worse, Chuck looked from Carina to the assassin.

"Don't generalize from your own case, Carina. Too small a sample."

Carina's eyes shimmied Chuck again. "He doesn't seem to be."

"On that note," Chuck said, blanketed tighter, "I will change."

"Me too," the assassin added, a _stay-put_ glare at Carina. A smirk-shrug in response..

Inside the cabin, started dressing. Carina shut out on the porch.

"She's really your...friend?"

Long sigh. "As close as I have, yes. We worked together — a few times. Once for a while, a long, deep cover assignment. Carina and I and another woman."

"She's...um...different. But a spy. Like you?"

The assassin nodded. Sarah did. "Sort of. DEA agent. I'd say she's harmless but that'd be a lie."

"But she's your _friend_?"

Helpless shrug — again. "Don't take all she says seriously. Maybe nothing she says. And don't trust her."

"But she's your friend?"

"Yes, but she's...afraid of me, when it gets down to it."

"Why?" A shadow over Chuck's face.

The assassin offered no answer. glanced away. Dressed, opened the door.

Carina entered, high ceremony, singing, mock-dancing.

_The love shack is a little old place where  
__We can get together  
__Love shack, ba-_ay_-by..._

Embarrassed but amused, Chuck grinned. "The B-52s?"

Carina narrowed her eyes, gesturing shoulder aimed at the assassin. "She didn't know that, I bet. So, did...Sarah...tell you about our _pussy_ days?"

Chuck's mouth worked soundlessly. Goldfish, landlocked. _Cough. _"What?"

"Carina!"

The assassin walked toward Chuck, shaking one hand. "When we worked together, deep cover, the agency men, CIA and DEA, they called us _The CAT Squad._"

Carina laughed. "I liked it, but it pissed off our girl, here. But then, she's had _more experience_ than me — with nicknames."

"Huh?" Chuck glanced, lost, at the assassin.

"Nothing. Are you hungry, Chuck?"

Gentle smile. "Famished." Sarah smiled back.

Carina snorted. The assassin glared.

"I'll make us some toast. We need to get on the road. Carina," the assassin faced the redhead, "are you _in _or _out?"_

"_Ohhh_. How about in _and_ out?"

"Carina."

"In, of course. I didn't drive to the edge of the known universe just to say _Howdy_. So, what _am_ I in, if it's not a three-egg omelette?" Carina draped a lingering smile all over Chuck. "I bet you're all..._yolky_. Or were, before Sarah lapped you sunny-side up..."

"Christ, Carina, stop!"

Carina grinned, laughing, showing her long, white teeth. "Just testing the boundaries…"

The assassin gritted her teeth. "Like a pervy toddler…"

ooOoo

Later, three in the car. Carina's car stowed in a grocery store lot, away from the cabin.

A stop for gas, to pee. Carina pushed past the assassin and into the _Women's_ first.

Chuck in the _Men's_ Room. The assassin stared at its door, considering Chuck, waiting for Carina. Chuck. Moving better. Taking fewer pain meds. No sign of infection. Arm should be in a sling, painful. But too obvious. Manhunt now off the front page but still on-going.

Assassin turned. Into the large interior. Grabbed a trucker hat. Cheap sunglasses. Paid for them. Turned. Chuck, walked toward her. Warm all over, starting in her chest, just looking at him. His eyes on her. "Put these on, Chuck." He nodded, obeyed. Curls hidden, brown eyes shielded by mirrors.

Carina appeared. Finally. Long pee. Carina reached up, pulled the bill of Chuck's cap lower. Green flame.

Sarah went to the bathroom. Done, washing her hands, warm water spilling over them, urge to laugh, urge to cry.

_Resist. Fight the feelings. Back to work._ _This is your life. Burned, burnt out, burnt offering. Not that, back there. Not _that _this, _this _this. — Stop wanting what is not yours._

Mission. _Save Chuck_. Get out of his life. Leave as small an exit wound as possible. Disappear. Sink into molten steel. Oblivion.

Carina and Chuck in the car. The assassin approached from the rear, rear window. Carina leaned up against the back of Chuck's seat. Talking. Sarah opens the driver's door to silence.

Slid in. Carina grinned. Chuck turned from the assassin, looked out the passenger window.

ooOoo

Another stop, not far from LA. Burner phone. The assassin handed it to Chuck.

"Call Ellie. Don't chat. No idle conversation. Tell her you are okay. Wound's okay. I'll time the call. When I signal you to cut it off, do, immediately, no matter what she's saying. Understand?"

Chuck nodded. Took off the sunglasses, put them in his pocket.

"This is stupid, Sarah. Why give up any information, risk discovery, just so your _bed-buddy_ can talk to his...sister? Better to get to town, get whatever it is you need to get — the whatzit, since you won't tell me — and get out. You of all people know better."

The assassin saw 'bed-buddy' register in Chuck's eyes, doubt. He looked at her. "If this is a bad idea, we can wait." Half-hearted, he held out the phone.

The assassin pushed it back toward him. "Call. I told you we would let her know you are alive, okay." Image of Ellie in the hospital, drained, terrified. Atrium sunlight. "Call. Put it on speaker. Carina, shut the hell up."

Ellie's voice. "H...Hello?"

"El, it's me."

"Chuck! Thank God! Chuck! Where are you? How are you?"

"I can't say where. But I am okay. My wound is healing. I'm okay. I'll call again soon."

"Who took you, Chuck? Why would someone shoot you? Chuck, _what the hell is going on_?"

Sarah gave Chuck the sign. Ended the call.

Chuck looked up from the phone, pain in his eyes. "That might have been worse than not calling."

"No, Chuck. She knows you. She'll know you weren't lying. It'll help." Sarah touched his arm, rubbed it.

"Shit," Carina said, wheeling toward the car, "this is worse than I thought."

As Carina climbed in, the assassin grabbed Chuck's arm. "Don't listen to her, Chuck. The things she says. Carina's always playing her own games."

Doubting eyes, Chuck nodded. "Right. I keep forgetting you live in a world where no one says what they mean."

"It's also a world where some...mean things...they...can't say," Sarah replied. Stared into his eyes.

He glanced down, grabbed his sunglasses, donned them on before mirror-looking at her. "Right." He got in the car. The assassin got in too.

Chest-ache.

ooOoo

A small hotel.

Despite Carina's one-king-room suggestion, the assassin got three rooms.

Chuck, puzzled, dangled his key. The assassin did not explain.

_Cold turkey. Have to quit you, Chuck. Carina's a bitch, but she's right. No idea what I am doing. _

_Over the edge. Nothing beyond. _

_A leap into nothing. Into a something that she could see only as a nothing?_

"_For now we see in a mirror, darkly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known. And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is…"_

— _No. No Sunday School. Not that. Not _that _word. And no more _this.

_These three. Abide. _

Her face in her hands.

Collected herself.

Used the burner. Called her previous LA hotel. "Hello, this is Katie O'Connell. I stayed with you a few days ago. I paid upfront but when I left, I somehow managed to forget my suitcase in my room. My dad used to say I'd lose my head if not for my neck. — Oh, you have it? Wonderful. I'll be by tomorrow morning to claim it."

Opening move. The end's beginning. _What do you have planned, Graham_?

Sat on the bed. Not feeling. Trying to. Not feel.

* * *

A/N: If you want this to continue, speak up.


	13. LA Nocturne

A/N: Closer to the thick of things in the second arc.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Thirteen: LA Nocturne

* * *

_Work_. It would not. Work.

Not working. This, not-feeling. Trying to. Not feel.

She felt.

Chuck, her next-door neighbor. Her bed there. His bed. Their bed.

How could one night have undone her? Undone. Redone.

New.

Sarah.

_Arise, walk. In newness of life. _

Sarah rose. Walked, tip-toe, to her hotel room's door. Rumpled bed behind her. Turning the handle silently. Voices. Outside. Whispers.

"C'mon, Chuck, let me in — and I'll let you in, as many times as you want. Any point of ingress."

The assassin knew that tone, Carina's blatant _take-me _coo. It worked. Without fail. Cracked the door. Carina in the hallway, lacy red panties beneath a short, silky robe. No bra, but the robe just covering her.

"Carina, no." Chuck's voice.

Carina blinked. "No?"

"No."

"Why not?" Indignant hiss.

No answer.

"_Her_? Sarah? What do you think? Do you think she has _feelings_ for you? After what I told you in the car? — She not only doesn't have feelings for you, she doesn't _have_ feelings. Those big blue eyes are false, Chuckie-Boy. False. A film on emptiness. She's not _with_ you, is she? She's next door, probably sharpening her knives. She's got no claim on you. But my claim is right here." Carina's hand, one finger, started at her neck and drew a slow line south.

"But you're her friend!" Intense whisper.

"Yeah, and friends share...things they enjoy. I want to enjoy a little of that all-over glow I saw Sarah wearing this morning." Finger drew a slow line back north, lifting the edge of the robe, teasingly.

"No. I...I don't know why Sarah's there and not here. She's not been herself — or maybe she has been herself, I don't know for sure — pretty much since you showed up. And I don't know if I believe what you told me in the car, to be honest. It doesn't seem...right. And this, _this…_" — he must have pointed at her ensemble, her lack of ensemble — "this isn't right."

"You slept with her when you barely knew her. What's the difference?"

"The difference is...that she saved me, nursed…" — a long pause and a shift in tone — "me. And…" Longer pause.

"What?"

"And she _nursed_ me...and she's _she_, _her, Sarah, ..._you know." Stumbling.

"Jesus, Chuck, she gives you a little and you give it all away? Grammar too? You can't _love_ Walker. No one can, not even her friends. — And you really think all this is that _simple_? You fuck her a few times out in the Love Shack and she magically falls in love with you, you with her?" Scornful, soft laugh, question rhetorical. "And then what?" Non-rhetorical.

No response.

Carina smiled. Winner. "Exactly. And do you think it's really as simple as _she saved you_? Nothing with Walker's simple, Chuck. But with me, it is. Take me to bed. You'll really enjoy it. Really. I won't fall in love with you. You won't fall in love with me. We'll just acquire _carnal knowledge_ of each other. Think of it as adult physical education."

Chuck sighed, sounding confused and hurt and angry all at once. "No. — I don't get how you could be her friend and...and do this...want to do this."

Huff, more indignation. "Like I said, Chuck, nothing with Walker is simple, including friendship. Wake up, Chuck! There is _no_ Sarah Walker. You've fallen for Nobody." Carina turned haughtily, padded to her door. "And you'll be sleeping with Nobody too." Carina's door closed. Sarah pushed hers closed gently at almost the same time.

ooOoo

Sarah trembled. Rage, frustration, desire. Shaking.

Chuck said _no_. Turned down Carina's _take-me _coo, the coo with red-laced reinforcements. No. _Because of me_. _For me. _

Sarah left her room. Stepped to Chuck's door. Knocked, very softly. No answer.

Raised her hand to knock again, sideways glance at Carina's door. Door opened. Chuck's. Annoyed Chuck. His eyes burning, hot coals.

Saw it was Sarah. Eyes cooled. Covered in sudden ash.

"Sarah."

"Chuck, I…"

"Sarah?"

"Chuck, I want…"

Sarah?"

"...to be with you."

"What does 'with' mean, Sarah? Say what it means."

Struggled. Tongue-tied. Finally: "It means _with._"

Chuck shook his head, stood to his full height, forced to tilt her head back. Exasperated sigh. "Disquotation, that's your...goddamn answer?" Question through clenched teeth. "'With' means _with?_ That's not even conversation, Sarah...Or whatever your name is. Kyle."

T-shirt and panties. In the hallway. "Please, let me in, Chuck."

Stepped aside. Entered. Chuck gently closed the door behind her. Turned to face him.

"I just...remembered...something, a minute ago, I think," Chuck said.

"What?"

"_You_. Me. In the hospital. Only you weren't you." Pregnant glance, he looked away. "You were you but with brown hair, glasses...and a needle. A nurse. Your hand on my arm. Warm."

He looked back at her, challenge in his ashed-over eyes. "Was that a dream or was that real?"

"Real. I mean, not real. I mean I was in disguise."

Chuck smirked bitterly. "Who did your make-up, Sideshow Bob?"

"Huh?"

"Nevermind A Krusty reference. — Why did you have me, and have a needle?"

_Think, Sarah. Lie._

No words came. Her tongue a corpse. In her mouth, mortuary.

"I assume you were saving me, _right_?"

No lying words but a nod. A lie.

"I knew there was some reason I kept having déjà vu. I had seen you but didn't remember. And it sorta wasn't you." He walked past her to his badly rumpled bed. Covers all askew.

Sat. Tone changed. "On your missions, Sarah, do you _seduce _men?"

"What do you mean, Chuck?"

Another bitter smirk. "There's a change. You asking me that. I mean do you ...routinely...sleep with..._assets, marks?"_

_Seduce. Assets. Marks. Where is he getting these words?_

_Carina_.

"What has Carina been telling you?"

"That what happened...you know, at the cabin, is your **SOP**. That _at best_, I was...am...your Bond girl. And not the one at the end of the movie. One of the ones from the first few minutes."

Sarah moved to him. Crouched down. "I've never seen a Bond film. Chuck, did any of what happened _feel _like me just...going through the motions? Did I strike you as..._in practice_?"

"No," he answered. "But she, Carina, says that you are a brilliant liar, even when you...aren't talking."

Sarah put her hands on Chuck's knees. "I promise you that what happened...meant something to me." She could not hold his gaze. Looked down. Reverent. "A lifetime's worth."

Took her hands in his, his long fingers encircling each hand. "Why would Carina lie to me?"

"Because she likes to take what I want." She stood, using his hands to push him back onto the bed. Hovered over him, weight on her knees, mattress' end. A smile from Chuck, cautious but real.

Hands, his released hers. Moved to her cheek. Stroked with the backs of his fingers. Slow. Careful. Full of care. "I don't know your name. I know that. And I don't understand how we've ended up here, exactly. But I know you are somebody, Sarah. Kyle. Somebody I know enough to..._um_, somebody I want to know better."

Her lips pressed against his, her eyes pressed shut. He had eyes to see and saw. He saw somebody with a future. A future open and open to him.

She let him see it while she disbelieved it. _Only so long, Chuck. So long, Chuck._

She climbed on top of him and stole from him again. Giving all she had, as the bed grew around them, stretching from horizon to horizon in every direction, encompassing. Giving him her all.

Sarah did.

The assassin would talk to Carina later. A conversation.

ooOoo

In the car, the car she got from Gabber. The Fuck. From across the street, on the next block, the assassin watched the hotel, her suitcase hotel.

Van parked out front. Linen service.

The assassin frowned, sighed. Still angry. No time to talk to Carina without Chuck around. Left him with her behind a building down the street. Should be on top of it, Carina's binoculars trained on the car.

Graham would not expect the assassin to have any backup. Except for the rare missions with Carina, the assassin worked alone. Always alone. _Ago_.

Linen service. CIA. Grey sedan, twice around the block. But a block up from Sarah. More CIA.

A sizeable force. No mistake. Graham would not make one. Not again. The assassin did not need the suitcase. Would miss her knives. Custom-made. Perfectly balanced. Deadly. Proven.

Glanced in the rearview. The grey sedan was on her block, closing on her. Slowly. They knew the car. A man emerged from the car as it rolled. The assassin saw the silenced pistol as he darted between cars.

_How did they know?_

Man approaching. Car still rolling.

Linen van had started. Moving toward her. Waited for cover. Carina. The assassin would not hear it. Her. Carina's gun. Silenced. _Move when it comes. _Foot on the gas, racing pulse and engine.

Cover fire did not come.

Car and van rolled closer.

_Carina? Chuck?_

* * *

A/N: Thoughts?


	14. Benedictress

A/N: More story. Thanks for reading on!

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Fourteen: Benedictress

* * *

No time. To think. None. Man almost to the car. Gun. Sedan closing. Van too.

Trap.

One foot freed brake, one punched gas. Car lept from the line of parked cars into the lane of moving traffic. Horns, tire-squeals. Into the intersection just as the van reached it. Whipped the car around, sedan behind. Timing. Timing.

Sedan, weightier, clumsier, could not duplicate her turn. Slammed into the front corner of the van.

Time.

Time gained. Gas to the floor, engine screams, release. Passenger window shatters, shards of safety glass like heavy snow. Man, running, silenced shot as she completed the turn. Pinpricks of embedded shards. _Ignore them_. Ahead of the sedan, rearview. Coming again, though. Van behind. Now a chase, not a trap. Distance gained.

Space.

_Carina? Chuck? _

Shot through the next two intersections, ran the red lights, feather's-breadth avoidance of cross-flow traffic. Plunged in the stream and rose out, no splash, miraculously unwrecked. Right-hand turn. _Gun it_.

Sedan and van stymied by traffic, rearview empty, next intersection. Right-hand turn. No sign of local law enforcement. A Spookshow. Good. _I am the Queen of the Spooks. _Slowed down, fading into traffic. Other cars fold in behind her, obscuring hers.

Blocks. Cross street. Pulse audible, palpable. Down the alley where she dropped Carina and Chuck.

At the far end, she saw Carina, gun out. Carina pushed Chuck. the side door of a van, different van. One driver. Carina grabbed the side-door handle, shut it, glanced down the alley.

Locked eyes. Sarah felt hers ice over. Carina's flashed panic and she reached for the passenger door, yelling to the driver. She jumped in. The van already running.

Sarah punched the gas into the floorboard. But the van's side door opened, rolling. Chuck jumped out, landed awkwardly, fell hard to pavement.

Sarah stopped the car just before hitting him, slammed brakes, tires screaming. Chuck got up, leaning on the front of the car, worked his way to the passenger door. The van stopped.

Sarah brushed glass shards from the passenger seat.

Chuck clambered in. Gasping. Blood seeping through his shirt, shoulder. The van barrelled backward at them.

Sarah jammed the car in reverse and punched the gas again. The van gained on them, then the car began to pull away. Time. Space.

Fishtail spin into the street, out of reverse. _Forward! Drive!_ The van oncoming, battering ram.

Just missed. Sailed behind. The assassin sped into traffic. The van tried to turn but took too long. Left-hand turn. Drive. Right-hand turn. Drive.

Rearview, empty of enemies. The assassin took a full breath. At last. Almost dizzy. Worry-sick. Chuck reached up to touch his left shoulder, right hand. Blood.

"Chuck, are you okay?" Sarah asked.

"Pulled my stitches. Hurts. But, yeah, I'm okay. And by the way, that Carina, your friend, she's a _bitch_."

The assassin gritted her teeth. Payback would be a bitch too.

Turned onto the first highway, sped from town.

ooOoo

Roadside rest. Car parked among tractor-trailers.

Still inside, Sarah helped Chuck remove the bloody shirt. He was right: stitches had pulled but the wound had not reopened. It was healing well, the deeper layers. Using the shirt, she wiped the wound carefully. Full of care.

"I'll get you another shirt from the trunk." Pulled the lever at her feet.

Sarah got out, walked around to the trunk. Her things in a plastic grocery bag, Chuck's in another. Carina's suitcase. _Right. Check that later. _Grabbed a shirt from Chuck's bag. Walked to the missing passenger window. "Stay in the car. Here's a shirt. I'll go get something to clean the wound better." Started to turn.

Chuck's hand caught hers.

"Thanks for coming back for me. She was going to turn me in. Graham. Thanks."

_Always. — Stop. _

Sarah squeezed Chuck's hand. "At least we never told her about _Omaha. _About the Buy More."

Chuck looked at Sarah. "I wondered why you kept so much from her."

"Experience," Sarah answered and the assassin continued: "Like I told you, she's always playing her own games. She chose to play the wrong one this time." She felt Chuck's eyes on her, a reaction to her change, but she turned toward the building, the bathrooms.

Wet paper towels in hand, she returned, got other things from the trunk. Dabbed the wound, cleaned and disinfected it. The bruising, green-yellow. Tried not to think of her bullet tearing his flesh, dear flesh. — _Stop. _

_No, I did this. — I have to tell. Live with the consequences. I will tell, as soon as he is safe, as soon as I won't be leaving him in danger. _

Not thinking, brushed her fingers soft along the skin of his upper arm. Kissed his neck. Again. Breathed him in. Deep in, his scent inside her, essential.

All her life. A hologram. Insubstantial. No insides. Wraith ringed about with corpses. Only death substantial. Her occupancy of space an illusion. No insides. Insubstantial.

Carina: _Nobody_.

_Chuck had such eyes, the kind the White King wanted: "To be able to see Nobody!" _

Chuck had seen Sarah Nobody and, so seeing, such seeing, made her substantial, somebody. But — how to be somebody? No clue. _Who is this I in me?_

"Sarah?"

"What?"

"Are you alright? You drifted off there."

"Sorry, aftereffects of all the adrenaline. Put your shirt back on." _Help me stop daydreaming, hoping for something I can't see. _

Shirt on. Focus. "So what happened with Carina, Chuck? Tell me slowly this time, with details."

"Well, we got out of the car and went into the building, climbed the steps. She kept jabbing at me. You see, she...she stopped by my room last night before you did…"

"Really?"

"Um...yeah. She...as weird as this sounds...she offered to sleep with me, although that way of putting it seems a little...tame." He glanced at her sideways. "Are you mad at me?"

"Did you sleep with her, Chuck?"

"No!"

"So why would I be mad at you?"

"I don't know...I'm just so far out of my element. Assassination attempts. Dead spies. Live spies. Live women, spies, in underwear. You, Sarah, ...and what I'm feeling…"

_Don't say it, Chuck. _Sarah felt warm all over. _Stop._

"So," the assassin interrupted, "what was she saying — on the stairs?"

"That I really screwed up. She kept emphasizing 'screwed'."

"I can imagine. What Carina told you about me was the story about her."

"Oh. Right. Now, that feels...right, if you know what I mean. — Anyway, we got to the top floor and went out onto the roof. I walked to the ledge, leaned over to find your car, and...she put a gun to the back of my head."

The assassin's lips formed a cold line. _Bitch. _

"She laughed and said, 'You should've screwed me last night, then at least you'd have been able to face things with a load off your mind.'"

The assassin shook her head, liquid-hydrogen fury. "Carina's endless double entendres…"

"Yeah, that one was a real hoot," Chuck offered, deep frown.

"So, we stood there, her with the gun on me, and watched as the car and the van closed in on you. Carina muttered that it was for your own good. It took me a minute to process it all, her...betrayal. I yelled to you at just the same time as you pulled into traffic."

He gave her a look, confessing failure. "Carina hit me in the shoulder. With the gun. That's how the stitches got pulled. Not in my clumsy fall or not just then. I landed on my side, mostly.

"When you sped off, she yanked me toward the stairs, made me run down them. She made a call as we did. When we got to the bottom, we stood there for a minute or two, then the van came. She shoved me inside, told me I would meet Graham face-to-face."

"Face-to-face? Bastard must be in LA…"

"So what do we do now, Sarah?" Chuck's expression softened and he took her hand, noticed the shards of safety glass speckling her skin, carefully brushed them away. "If you think we should run, I'll run..._with you_. But I'm scared. For my sister, my friends. If...Graham is here, then...Jesus, I should have left it all alone. _Omaha. _Mom and dad. All of it. What did I hope to accomplish?..."

"We can't run, Chuck," — caught his gaze, held it in her own — "even though I want to. _With you_. But...I won't risk the people...you care about. And if we run, this just goes on and on. Graham's shown his hand. No holds barred." She started the car.

"So where are we going?"

"It's time to get _Omaha. _Time to go to the Buy More. But we have some stops to make on the way and some calls."

"What about Carina?"

"After the Buy More, _Carina_."

"And after Carina?"

"_Graham_."

_And after that? Sarah, the assassin, asked herself. — No answer._

* * *

A/N: Tune in next time for Chapter 15, "Big Box Store, Little Box Casket". Thoughts? Love to hear from you!


	15. Big Box Store, Little Box Casket

A/N: More story. Changes.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Fifteen: Big Box Store, Little Box Casket

* * *

New.

Stolen.

The car.

Not brand new, but not the one Gabber traded her. That one, seen. Tainted. This one, a small two-door brown sedan, an automotive wallflower. Invisible. Wholly unremarkable. More shadow of a car than a car. Kinship.

Back seat. Carina's suitcase, rummaged and shut, items half-in, half-out. Nothing of interest, except perhaps to a lingerie model. One find: a picture of Chuck, tucked in the lining. One of the same as the ones on the assassin's phone, sent by Graham. Carina had come looking for Chuck.

Why not take him earlier? At the cabin, brought back-up? Why the delay, the games? No answers. Carina's behavior: bizarre, even for Carina. Changed nothing. Betrayal. She hurt Chuck. She _hurt_ him. Was giving Chuck to Graham.

Pit of the assassin's stomach, iced over. Eyes on the road.

Back seat. Beside the suitcase, a hard-sided rifle case. Rifle. Scope. Silencer. Assassin's tool. Not state of the art, like the one she used...before. But, enough.

Eyes on the road. The assassin's. Eyes on her, Chuck's.

He had been silent, watching, puzzled, impressed, uneasy. Seeing things.

Head against the dash, she hotwired the car. Found it in a long-term parking lot. Chuck watched.

Baffled by her ability to find a gun shop willing to sell to her out the back door, under the table.

Carried the rifle to the car, box of shells. Chuck observing, still baffled, now unsure, obviously thinking. She met his eyes. A penetrating look, her and the rifle case and shells. Glanced away.

Put the rifle case in the rear. Used Carina's clothes, obscured it. Red lace panties, other colors, atop the rifle case.

New burners. Old ones smashed, pieces strewn in dumpsters.

Phone call. Father's old LA con-buddy. Slum lord. A place to stay. Not much. Not a hotel. No check-in, no surveillance. A rundown complex. Arrangements for that night.

Stop at an electronics store. Best computer there for Chuck. Not like what he built at The Buy More, the one he used…before. But, enough.

A stop in a random parking lot.

The assassin held out a new burner. "Your friend, the beard, Morgan, call him…"

A long look. "Why?"

"We need him to retrieve _Omaha. _Tell him where it is but not what it is. Have him bring it to us. The rear of the store. Can he do it?"

A longer look. "I suppose. He usually works now." Reluctant. "But, I don't want to put him in danger, Sarah."

She touched his hand. "Me, either. But he'll be in less danger than you or I would. A lot less danger. Maybe none at all. We have no reason to think Graham believes or suspects you hid it there. With any luck, Morgan can carry it out to us, we drive away, no one the wiser. I'm...not being...cavalier with your friend, Chuck. Our earlier plotting has to be thrown out. We have Carina in the mix now, and Graham on-location in LA...He's your _friend_. I'll keep him safe.

"And we have to have _Omaha. _You know that. We have to know why Graham is so desperate. In LA. — He never leaves Langley, much less DC. We need _Omaha _and then we need a place for you to work. We have that. I've arranged it. You heard the call. We've got a computer." She pushed the burner toward Chuck. Grimacing, he took it and dialed. Exhaled.

"Morg, listen, it's Chuck. I'm okay but I need your help. — I know, I know. Great to hear your voice too. Yes, Ellie...I talked to her. She knows I'm okay. Look, I can't explain. Just believe me. I need your help. Listen.

"In Big Mike's office, his bronzed donut…"

The assassin coughed, mouthed "Bronzed donut?"

Chuck waved at her. "...Yes, _that, _the holy of holies. It turns out that it's hollow. Twist it and it will come off the display stand. Inside it is a thumb drive. Bring it out of the rear of the store in…"

The assassin held up one finger. "...one hour. Text this number if there's a problem, but only if there's a problem. We'll..._I'll_ be waiting. Brown sedan. No, it's not my car. I can't explain. Stop, Morgan. Just do it, okay? Can you get into Big Mike's office? Right, child's play. Shut down the store cameras, rear cameras, the cameras on the parking lot too. You know the drill. Just do it, Morgan! See you in 60."

Sarah smiled at Chuck, gentle head-shake. "It's in a metal donut?"

"Big Mike, the manager, won a contest. Free donuts for a year. The winning ticket was in a donut, sort of like Wonka's Golden Ticket…"

Sarah shrugged, lost.

"Movie. Contest. Anyway, Big Mike kept the donut. Maybe the only donut he started and did not finish. Got it bronzed somewhere, somehow. It's his good-luck piece. Keeps it in his office, on the desk. Hands off. I was curious...one day...in there doing inventory. Force-feed items. Fiddled with it. Found out it was hollow...Filed that fact away."

"Funny. You have a...curious mind, Chuck Bartowski."

"Yeah, but you mostly want my delicious body."

Sarah grinned, surprised by the unexpected playfulness, his and hers. The assassin was often funereal, rarely funny, fun.

"I want it _too_," she said. "All of you." Leaned in, stole a kiss.

_For as long as I can have you, all of me, this new I in me, whoever she is, all for you._

ooOoo

One hour later. Chuck checked his watch.

No text from Morgan.

Behind The Buy More. Big Box. Store. Engine idling.

Waiting for Morgan.

Nerd Herders, parked, white, black and red array. Employee cars, a few. Nothing stirred.

Chuck. Palms wiped on pants legs. Whistling softly, tunelessly. Passenger seat.

Sarah, driver's seat. Window down, looking at the rear of the store.

No text but no Morgan.

Five minutes.

Ten.

"Stay in the car, Chuck. I'm going to peek inside. Gun beneath her jacket.

Silently through the rear doors into the storage room, repair area.

Morgan in a chair in a cage-like center area. Surrounded by electronics, parts. Sargasso sea of plastic and wire. And a woman. Gun out, trained on Morgan.

"Where were you going? And what do you have in your pocket?"

Morgan, weak smile. "Oh, you want to play a guessing game? Like _Lord of the Rings? _I mean _The Hobbit?_"

Woman smacked Morgan with her other hand, open.

"Ouch! Hey!"

Around the cage, silent. Silent. Assassin's gun out, in hand. — _Don't react, Morgan. _

He sees her but manages no reaction. Finger to her lips, through the cage door. Handle of the gun down hard. Sharp strike downward, woman's neck. The woman crumpled.

Morgan stared, mouth open.

Words. "Vicki Vale?"

He stood up. Scared still. "Are you with Chuck?"

"Yes, Morgan, I'm with Chuck. _Bronze donut_." Stuffed the gun back in the top of her pants, beneath the jacket.

Stepped past the woman. A sigh of relief. "Good." He stepped even with Sarah, looking down, fishing in his pocket. "Let's get this thumb drive to Chuck."

"— No, it goes to me." Low voice. _Who?_

A man. Gun on Morgan, silencer, near the swinging door to the sales floor, hand against it, still moving slightly. Two strides toward Morgan, only a few feet between them. The intent in the man's eyes. A hardness. A narrowing. No time to get to her gun. She threw herself between Morgan and the gun.

Shield.

A muffled shot, a crack.

Morgan beneath her. On top of the unconscious woman. Self-inventory. No wound.

"Sarah!" Chuck's voice. The sound of metal on concrete.

His hands on her, rolling her over. "Sarah, please God, no. Sarah!"

He sees her face, her eyes. Pulls her up. "I'm okay, Chuck. But Morgan…?"

"I'm okay." Morgan's voice. "She broke my fall." Sits up beside the unconscious woman. "I'm okay. He missed."

Chuck pointed at a long piece of metal on the floor. He was wide-eyed, frazzled. "I helped. Went around the store and came in the front. Saw this loose in the BeastMaster display. I saw this guy, unauthorized personnel going into the storage room. One-armed swing was enough..."

Chuck's hand out. Morgan took it, stood.

"We need to get out of here, now." The assassin. She bent down, quickly frisked the unconscious man. Found his pass case, phone.

They ran out of the rear door. "Get in the back, Morgan, scoot the suitcase out of the way," the assassin ordered, reaching, the driver's door handle.

Morgan. "Hey, there are loose panties back here…"

Felt herself caught, behind. Turned, Chuck's enveloping embrace.

"You...you...in front of him...to _save_ him...Morgan, my friend...I saw it. I hit that guy as he fired. Thank you, thank you, Sarah. — And never, ever do that again. I can't...I just can't..." An anguished look, squeezed her hard, sudden. Eyes averted. Released her, round the front of the car.

The assassin, Sarah, the assassin shook herself, disoriented, overwhelmed. Warmed. _I did that._

Got in. Everyone in.

Tires screeching, away. "Tell me how to get to Ellie's, Chuck, now!"

ooOoo

Forty-eight minutes later.

They were all there: _the really nice smile, the smile's sister, the smile's sister's husband, the beard_. And the assassin.

A dingy apartment. Ratty furniture. Holes and lumps. Lamps without shades. Naked bulbs. Beds without sheets. Naked mattresses.

Car parked outside at a distance.

Chuck, Ellie, Devon, Morgan. They were all there. All with her. Facing her. Looking frightened and confused.

_What have I done?_

All looking at her. _Feel naked. _

Ellie finally spoke. "So tell us who you are again, what's going on…" Ellie, holding one of Chuck's hands, refused to let go. She was staring at the rifle case in Sarah's hands. Little box. Coffin.

No words. Chuck started to answer, shell box in his other hand.

Words, two. Cut him off. "I'm Sarah,"..._the assassin_...Sarah said.

* * *

A/N: In the thick of the second arc now. Thanks for reading! Drop me a comment, please. Big box at the bottom.


	16. With or Without?

A/N: Conversations. Longish writerly note at the end you should feel free to skip.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Sixteen: With or Without?

* * *

"_Sarah_, huh? And what are you holding? Chuck," Ellie revolved to him, "she's carrying a handgun. I saw it earlier, when she got things out of the trunk."

Ellie released Chuck's one hand. Pointed to his other, the shell box. "And now you're carrying her...ammunition?"

Chuck faced Ellie. "She's the reason I'm here, Ellie. Sarah is. She saved me. She's a spy, CIA, well, sort of. It's complicated."

Ellie's eyes pinned the assassin. Intent. Suspicious. Needle through a dead beetle. Then back to Chuck. "A man was found dead in the hospital the day you were taken, Chuck. Did she take you?"

"No, I mean...She stopped the assassins that were sent to kill me. That man, he must have been one of them." He looked to Sarah. She looked back, nodded.

Ellie, watching the exchange. "Chuck, you were taken by a man in a policeman's uniform and a woman dressed as a doctor. A man and a woman who matched witness reports were found dead, naked, in _Los Padres…_" Again, Ellie revolved, the assassin, now. "That was...you."

Another nod. Ellie blanched. Sarah felt the apartment complex rock, boat on choppy waves. Slight nausea.

"So _this woman_," handwave at Sarah, eyes to Chuck, "this woman that you brought to our apartment and have entrusted with me, Devon and Morgan, this woman is responsible for _three deaths_...that we know of."

"She _saved _me, El. Nursed me. Took care of me." His voice softened, slowed, then he continued. "Saved me again earlier today. I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for her."

Ellie eyed Sarah. "Is that true?"

Before Sarah could speak, Morgan: "And she saved me. At The Buy More. Like I said in the car. Some evil woman, and some guy...She and Chuck knocked' em out." {antomimed Chuck's one-armed swing over his final words.

Ellie stood. Walked to Sarah. Stared into Sarah's eyes. "Okay, for now." The words slow, suspicious. "But you and I are having a serious chat after I check my brother's shoulder. Don't go anywhere, ...spy girl."

Ellie marched away. "Bring my bag, Chuck."

Chuck got up, picked up Ellie's medical bag, handed Sarah the shell box as he passed. "Sorry."

He followed Ellie into the bedroom. Pushed to door to.

ooOoo

Morgan and Devon, staring. Sarah looked away. Plastic bag with Chuck's things. Medicine. Alcohol. Probably not necessary. Still. Put down the rifle case and shell box. Picked up the bag. Down the hallway.

Morgan talking to Devon. "So, she comes in the storeroom...all quiet-like, shiny gun out, looking like a _noir_ Valkyrie, and she makes a motion with her finger, put it on her lips, for me to be quiet…" Morgan's last words, mumbly. His own finger illustrating.

Shift of attention to voices, muffled, other side of the door.

"Ellie, ouch!, don't treat her like that. Sarah. Ow, ow. How is it?"

"Oh, Chuck," tears in Ellie's voice. "It's...It's okay. Healing well. The bruising's about where it should be. Yellow. Oh, Chuck, the scar, though. It was going to be bad, but the pulled stitches. It'll always be there. Marking you, for life. I...I'm sorry, Chuck, but you're my little brother, kinda my...boy. I hate it. Hateful, fucking bullet. A goddamn monster with a gun!"

Sarah put her hand down, positioned to knock. _I am the monster. Bullet, mine. _Tears. Wiped them away. Breath.

Knocked.

A moment of quiet. Ellie opened the door. Says nothing.

"Here're Chuck's things. Meds and stuff I was using."

Ellie took the bag. Turned away. "Come in."

Chuck was on the bed. Shirt off. Bandage too. Stitches. Red, mottled flesh. The work of Sarah's hands. Right hand, left hand. Willy-nilly. _Will ye, nill ye?_ Willing and unwilling. Still, her hands. Hand. Sits down, doesn't look. Tries to, not look. Ellie tends the wound.

Chuck reaches back. Right hand out. Sarah puts her left hand in it.

Ellie stared at their hands. "You're _together_?"

Neither answered.

Ellie huffed. "I don't understand. Talk to me, Chuck, why are some spies trying to _kill _you, and other spies _saving_ you? Where the hell did all these spies come from?"

Head duck. Chuck. "El, you remember...that suitcase of Mom's that we found?"

Ellie's hands stopped. "Yeah, Chuck, I do. The one with the photograph of Mom and Dad inside. The photograph taken in Virginia? Dad's inscription. 'Love you so much. I'm always with you.'"

"Right. I didn't just take that suitcase out to the trash. In the lining, there were passports, passports of mom's. But they weren't in her name. They were aliases." Chuck rushes onward. "I started digging. Mom was a spy, Ellie. Like Sarah, except Mom — she killed people, Ellie, assassinated them. She was an assassin. She stopped that after...when she got assigned to Dad."

Ellie, a step back. Almost a fall. "Assassin? Assigned? Chuck, that can't be right. Can't be. She was...insurance…" Ellie's hands, small random motions in the air.

Chuck reached out. Broke contact with Sarah, caught Ellie's hands. "I'm sorry to just...bomb you with this. I am. But you need to know. — No, Mom wasn't in insurance. And their disappearance, Mom's and Dad's. Connected to the CIA. I started...hacking again...digging…"

"Chuck, you promised! Promised that was done. Before you went to college."

Chuck reddened. Guilty. "I did stop. But I never told you how much I did before I stopped or how...famous..._infamous_...I became. I had a...name. Piranha. And when I realized...about Mom, I became the Piranha again. Broke my promise. Lied."

"And you...hacked..._the damn CIA_?" Ellie caught up, shock about her mom shunted aside. "Shit, Charles, what were you thinking? — _Shit_. You brought all this down on us, our heads? Why?"

"I had to know. What happened to them. Mom and Dad. There was the project, _Omaha._" Chuck reached into his pocket. The thumb drive. "Mom and Dad were connected to it, somehow. And the project was overseen by the now-Director of the CIA, Langston Graham. He had done all he could to bury it…"

"And you _dug it up_? Grave-robbing from a CIA digital cemetery?!" She stopped, panting a moment, fisted her hands. After closing her eyes: "So, do you have it? Do you know what _Omaha _is, what happened to Mom and Dad?"

"No, only generalities. But I hope to know a lot more soon. I have a computer. Finish with me and I will get to work."

Ellie did. Sarah helped Chuck put on his shirt, Ellie watching. She pointed to the door. "Go work, Piranha. Sarah and I are going to chat."

ooOoo

Ellie closed the door.

Silence. Ellie repacked her bag. Closed it.

"So, ..._Sarah_. What's happened, what's happening between you and my brother?" Ellie waited.

The assassin studied the wood floor of the bedroom. Scarred, the floor. Deep scratches everywhere. A lifetime of misuse.

"So, you are CIA?"

"I am...was. At the moment, I'm..._rogue._ Or Graham is. Hard to keep score."

"So, this Graham...Graham's calling the shots...the _literal _shots. Sending agents to kill Chuck. But why? Why not just make Chuck give that thumb drive back? Isn't that enough?"

"No, because Graham must be worried that Chuck knows something that Graham does not want him to know. Graham would want the thumb drive, sure, but he's worried about what's in Chuck's head."

"But Chuck doesn't know anything...yet."

Shrug. "Not that he knows he knows, no."

"Jesus...You are a spy. That sounded more like code than English. — And so you saved my brother from Graham's tax-dollar killers and now you're...sleeping...with Chuck?"

"Ellie?"

"Don't deny it. You walked into a room in which my brother sat, shirtless, and he did not squirm or cover up. Two things about Chuck: he's reticent both about public displays of affection, and public displays of his person. But not with you. And that means…"

"Yes, we're together..._sleeping_ together…" _A few days of a good man. _

Ellie, arms crossed, staring. Silent. "I knew it." More silence. "I'm assuming this is just...temporary. He's your...Bond girl?"

A gasp. Ellie speaking Sarah's current thought — and Chuck's earlier image. "No, no...yes, temporary."

"He knows?"

Nod, weak. "More or less."

Long sigh from Ellie. "I see how he looks at you. You're going to kill him, you know."

"_What?_"

"When you leave him. My brother doesn't love with a part of himself. It's why Mom and Dad...why it shattered him. It took me a long time to put him back together. And except for the people in the other room, he's never loved anyone again. Until now. You. A bloody, goddamn spy...That's who he decides to love. Another one, I guess, and a different way. Mom, damn it. Now you."

"Love?" The assassin spoke the word. Interrogating Ellie, herself.

"Yes, and, despite what you have done for him — I guess I have no choice but to believe all of that, thanks — and despite your...obvious charms, you are so _not-the-right-woman_ for him. So, though I don't relish putting him back together again, I'll do it." Ellie stopped. Her voice, grown hard, softened. "I really do thank you, Sarah. But you have to know. What you do, who I assume you've been...I don't pretend to know how you feel about Chuck," Ellie paused but the assassin studied the floor, "but I can't imagine this meaning for you what it does for him. He's just some kind of...mission...isn't he? Given what you've done, you need him and _Omaha _to get reinstated. And that's all, really, right?" Ellie's voice grew no louder but became more intense. "You don't love him? You don't...see anything with him beyond this mess? You don't see a future?"

"I don't...see a future…" _I keep trying. _

"Then be fair to him." Intensity lessened. "And maybe to yourself. End it sooner, not later. Otherwise, all your help will ultimately be hurt."

Ellie picked up her bag. Left. The assassin sat in the bedroom, hunting a future in the floor's scars.

ooOoo

Left the room after a while. Wiped her eyes.

Chuck talking, telling them about what he remembered since waking up. He had the computer open and was typing, working. Ellie looked up at Sarah. Ellie's face, unreadable. She looked back at her brother.

Chuck had not noticed her. The assassin picked up the rifle case, the shell box. Devon noticed, spoke.

"Are you leaving, Sarah?"

Everyone looked. Chuck.

"I'm going to try to even the playing field. Chuck has a burner phone. Leave all of yours off, sim card out, as I told you in the car. There're probably pizza places that will deliver even here. Use a fake name. Cash. You have cash?"

Devon nodded. Chuck was staring at the assassin.

Moved to leave, the door. "Sarah?"

She stopped, facing the door.

"Sarah, I'm coming with you."

"No."

"Yes. Here, Ellie, the burner. Sarah, what do you like on your pizza?"

Shut her eyes, sighed. _Chuck_. "Veggies. But without olives. Chuck, you need to stay, work. What I am going to do I need to do alone."

"I can bring the computer with me. Work in the car. I'm not using the internet. Everything's on the thumb drive, I just need to put it...together. It's like a jigsaw. I've got the straight bits but there's something missing in the middle. Please let me come."

No use to fight. Did not want to fight. Wanted him near. Turned to face him. Noticed Ellie, watching closely, closely, waiting.

_Does he love me, Ellie? No one has ever…_

"Okay. But you have to promise to do what I say. Including staying in the car if I tell you to stay in the car." Sidelong glance at Ellie, the assassin expecting protest. Ellie was still watching. No visible reaction.

Chuck shut the laptop and got up. He got to her, turned to the others. "_We'll be back_."

* * *

A/N: Thoughts, reactions?

_Writerly stuff (skip if uninterested)._ Since it's come up in the reviews and in a number of PMs, a word about what I am trying to do here. A Guest mentioned Hemingway, and although I am not comparing what I am doing _to_ him (of course not), it bears comparison _with_ him: he is in the background. So too, though, Gertrude Stein. Her book, _How to Write_, left a lasting impression on me, as did her _The Making of Americans_. — But behind both of them is the Hebrew Bible in the KJV translation. The syntax of that, its often radical _parataxis_, is the biggest influence on what I am doing. (There's a reason for the admixture of scripture throughout, for Sarah calling her story an Old Testament story.) Other writers matter too: various _noir_ fiction writers of the '50s I admire, like David Goodis, but also other later, non-_noir_ writers like J. P. Donleavy and Patrick White.

Hemingway's so-called _Iceberg Principle_ does matter here, but crucially supplemented with a Stein-like deep concern with verbal patterning. My concern with patterning is so pronounced that it threatens to push the prose over into poetry, free verse. (Among my favorite moments in prose are those moments in Dickens, typically moments of high drama or low comedy, where his prose shuffles off its prosaic coil and transfigures into free verse.) My intent has not been simply to pare the prose down (as if I were offering story notes in lieu of a story), but rather, pared down, to freight the prose with meaning, meaning carried not just by the words in isolation but by the words-in-patterns, by repetitions, echoes, placements, and displacements. I hope the prose is a (sometimes brutally) brief but a collectively effective way to put Sarah's addled, fragmented spirit on display, to show its slow, fitful changes. (Sarah is not just _in mind confused_ but _in soul perplexed_.) The reader is challenged to assign grammatico-logical roles to words and phrases, since the radical parataxis and the manipulated, unfamiliar or broken syntax leaves the words in need of such assignment. Also, the reader is challenged to keep the verbal patterning in mind so that extensions of it can be recognized and understood. That's one reason I have pushed myself with the posting schedule. If the reader forgets the words of the previous chapter(s), the reader will almost certainly fail to understand the present one, its full meaning. So many of the words that matter are particles, unremarkable little words, considered in isolation: 'with', 'ago' 'so', 'long', 'left', 'right', etc. The goal has been to make those particles swell in significance.

Just to be clear: I'm not claiming success here. Not at all. I'm describing the will, not the deed. Perhaps it all sucks. But this has been the aim, what I've been pushing toward in these little chapters.

— Zettel


	17. Gutshot

A/N: Here we go.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Seventeen: Gutshot

* * *

Rooftop ledge.

Wind and decision.

Company.

Wanted him with her.

Needed him with her.

He should not be with her. Absolutely. Should.

_Not._

Told him to stay in the car, work on the computer. Chuck agreed but now he was with her. On the ledge. Followed her to it.

A different rooftop, downtown LA.

Rifle case open. Little box casket. Gun out, conditions tested. Wind whipping around. Calculations made. Scope rendering the distant scene bright, close.

But now, Chuck. Beside her. No words. His eyes followed the gun barrel, the silencer, extending it toward an apartment window. The lights had just come on.

Scoped, the assassin could see her, Carina. Redhead, cross-hairs.

Unscoped, Chuck saw her too, same distance, less bright, deathly intimacy. Distant. But he knew her. The assassin heard him gasp.

"Carina? How did you know where to find her?"

Eye away from scope. Chuck's curls dancing in the wind.

The assassin's mouth a line, flat as her rifle barrel, but she spoke. "Carina's not the only one who knows things. Back when we worked together, I paid someone to dig into her DEA files. Got it all. Never work with someone you don't know...know about. She's owned this apartment for years. Alias." Fiddled with the scope.

"Who knows where she got the money? —Back at the cabin, she slipped but didn't realize when she told me, told me she was in LA before I got here. Figures she'd be at this apartment, Carina likes to live _soft_, but she didn't know I knew _here _was here. But I do." Eye back to scope. "Payback is a bitch."

"Sarah…"

"Don't, Chuck, this is...hard enough. I mean...the shot. Technical...I mean. Lots of variables. More distance than I like. This wind."

"Sarah...Sarah, don't."

Carina, open fridge. Removed a bottle, beer. In her hand. Digging in drawer. Bottle opener. Opened the bottle. Cross-hairs settling. Breathing controlled.

"Sarah, don't. Don't!" Harsh whisper. Prayerful.

Cross-hairs settled. Carina takes a drink of her beer. Long, visible sigh. Upset. Finger on the trigger, _gentle, gentle_. Breathing. _She hurt Chuck._ _Was going to give him to Graham_.

Carina was standing in front of the large window, staring out, toward the night skyline. Bright lights, big city. Little box casket.

The assassin relaxed. Carina, framed in glass. Another drink. Another long sigh.

"Sarah, I know what she did, but, Sarah..._this_? Don't."

"I'm going to do what I came to do." The assassin shut her eyes. Carina blacked out for a second. Re-opened them. Cross-hairs settled. Trigger.

_Squeeze. _

The rifle coughed once. Brief. Carina. _Bitch. _

Beer bottle in Carina's gunhand exploded, glass shards and foam suspended mid-air for a second.

Carina gasped. Gasp seen, unheard. She shook her hand, red running in the gold liquid. Looked at the window. Sees the bullet hole.

"Sarah?" Chuck.

Carina extended her arms. Walked to the window. One hand bleeding, blood running, now more copious than the beer. Made herself into human cross-hairs. Stands in the window, framed in glass again.

Waits to die.

"You...missed." Chuck.

"No, perfect shot. Direct hit." Sarah's voice sounds choked. Thick and unfamiliar.

Carina waits. Sarah watched through the scope. Chuck watched, naked eyes.

Long, hard moments.

Crucifix moments. Carina suspended on the cross-hairs. Carina's hand, blood.

Bile, Sarah's throat.

Chuck's labored breathing.

Nothing stirred. No one. Only the wind, blowing.

Two.

One.

Zero.

Finally, Carina backed away from the window. To the kitchen counter, visible. Same drawer. Rummaged. Found a cloth, pink, wrapped bloody hand. Finds another cloth, white. Grabbed a sheet of paper. Pen. Wrote with her non-gunhand. Left hand. Right hand bleeding into pink cloth, reddening.

Carina walked back to the window. Waving the white cloth. Flagging. A flag. _Surrender_.

A smirk on her face and pain in it. Still waving the white flag, she held up the paper. In the scope, Sarah could read it.

An address. _Graham_.

Sarah turned, knelt, quickly put the rifle in the case. Looked up. Chuck knelt beside her, watching.

Face as white as Carina's flag. Eyes intent with thought, deepest brown.

_He shouldn't be here. I need him too much. He sees._

Together, they hurried, elevator, car.

Drive. Payback was a bitch.

In every way.

ooOoo

"Pull over. I feel sick."

Chuck was no longer white. He was chrysanthemum yellow. That was worse.

Pulled into a parking lot, lit but deserted. Rifle case in the backseat. Chuck kept turning to look at it.

Chuck got out. Slammed the passenger door. Bent over, doubled, hands on knees. Swayed. Retching sounds.

Sarah shut the engine off. Got out. Quickly to Chuck, arm around his shoulder. He had moved away from the spot where he had gotten sick, but he had bent over again.

He trembled when her arm went around him. Shook it off. "Don't."

"Chuck?"

"That shot. That rifle. That miraculous shot. A beer bottle from that distance. The wind. I thought you took the rifle because it was all that guy would sell you. But no, it's your...thing. It was what you wanted."

He stood. Unsteady. His eyes were burning. Sarah stepped back involuntarily. He took a shaky step toward her.

"That shot. She knew it was you. Expected you to kill her, finish her off. Offered herself up." He shut his eyes, his right hand to his left shoulder.

"That shot. It was..._you. _Graham sent you to kill me." Chuck's eyes burned, burned with awful certainty.

"Chuck, I…"

"You're the same as my mother. The same sort. A killer, an assassin. I was your target. I don't know what happened. But I was…" He pointed at her, his finger shaking, tears wetting his burning eyes. He wiped his mouth with his other arm, his forearm.

"You shot me."

Long, hard moments. Silence.

Sarah could not make her mouth work. Her heart was in it, thumping, ricocheting. A mouthful of blood and…

..._Love_. _I love him. I know that...now...of all times. _

Chuck spit on the pavement, spit again. Looked up at her. Certainty still in his eyes. Horror, too. Of her. The assassin.

"And the shovel, pick, those were for me? You were still planning to kill me even after you 'saved' me?"

Chuck's arms wide, he made quotation marks in the air as he said _saved. _Arms out, for a moment, looked like Carina in the window. Then he winced, grabbed his shoulder.

"Chuck, please, just let me try to…"

"And then, then you _slept_ with me. With the man you shot. And you held me, kissed me. And I thought...I thought we _made love_ in that cabin, in the hotel, even if it couldn't last, that that was what happened...even if neither of us would say it. A lifetime's worth. But I am a fucking fool. Carina tried to warn me…"

"No, Chuck. That's not. That's not how it was. I mean, not the way Carina says, you and me. Yes, Graham sent me but…"

"But what? Did someone else shoot me? Someone else pull the trigger?"

Chuck glared at her, finger-pointing again, stabbing, stabbing, a physical accusation.

"You won't understand, Chuck, I'm not sure I do...but...yes, _someone else_. Someone who's dead, or anyway, who's _dying._" She stepped toward him but he held up both hands, warding her off.

_Chuck, please. Hold me. Need. _

"You told me the person who shot me was dead. But that was a lie, and you're lying now."

"No, Chuck. No, no, no. Not like you think." Tears ran down Sarah's cheeks, babbling brook, broken. Could not stop them. The whole world a rain of tears.

_Over already. _

Dripping on the pavement. Tears and spittle. Bile and regret.

"Chuck, have you ever...ever been so hungry that you hated yourself for it? For being capable of hunger? Have you ever been so hungry that you tried to tear your own stomach out?"

Chuck reeled. "What's that mean? I don't understand."

"I chose this life without understanding. Was buried in it before I knew it was killing me. I've been so miserable for so long, so hungry for something else...but I had no glimmer of what it was until now, until you. I just tried not to know how hungry I was. Until you smiled in my scope. The shot went the wrong way — revelation, you to me, not assassination me to you. I was the unknowing target of that smile.

"— Oh, God, Chuck. I pulled the trigger, yes. That makes me sick. It's been killing me. But I missed too, made sure the shot would not kill you. Me. I did both." She reached out her hand but his stayed hanging at his sides. "I didn't realize it until I knew I couldn't...that I couldn't do it. Couldn't let anyone else do it. Never. I buried the shovel, the pick, not you, Chuck. I buried her, the assassin. Graham's assassin. She wouldn't have missed. She wouldn't have saved you. Come back for you. She wouldn't have shielded Morgan…That makes me hope."

She stopped, sounding hysterical, desperate, out of breath. Panting.

Chuck stared at her, his eyes like twin scopes, as if he could not see her without visual aid.

Sarah went on, still panting. "She would have killed Carina. I'm not saying it makes sense. I'm just saying it's true."

They stood facing each other in the wind. Tears.

Both ways. Every way.

Chuck put his hands over his face, wiped it. He turned and leaned against the car, using only his right arm. He spoke without turning back to her.

"I stink of vomit. I don't know how to understand any of this. My heart, my heart hurts. And my damned shoulder. Take me back to the apartment —I can finish this without you. Save myself. You can go be Nobody with somebody else."

The assassin nodded and wiped her eyes and got in the car and drove.

Drove.

So long.

* * *

A/N: How could this be easy, pleasant? Tune in next time for Chapter 18, "Alas, Poor Yorick". If you're liking the story, please let me know.


	18. Alas, Poor Yorick!

A/N: Heading to the finish of the second arc.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Eighteen: "Alas, Poor Yorick"

* * *

Watched Chuck trudge into the apartment.

The assassin did.

_Arise, walk. In newness of life…_

_...And, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen._

_Amen and amen. _

So.

_So._

_So be it._

_Always. So long._

_So long, Chuck. _

No goodbye. Just the slamming car door. Weary trudge. Weight to bend him double but he stood straight.

The assassin was the crooked one. Bent. Double.

On the drive, Chuck busy not-looking at her. Rubbing his shoulder. Wiping his eyes. No words. The assassin was choking, love and guilt.

Chuck never opened the laptop. He had it beneath his arm as he trudged.

"_You're going to kill him, you know." Ellie. _

_Why hast thou forsaken me? _

The assassin settled the crosshairs on her own heart. "_My heart hurts." Chuck. _

Drove away. Had told Chuck she would return the car later, leave it. Needed to drive.

Out sidestreets, out highway, out, onto a backroad. No idea which, where. Continuous white lines equidistant from broken yellow ones.

Her life in lines. Taught by her father. Drilled.

* * *

"_What's your line, Sam? What do you say if one of the church folks ask about your mother? Line!" _

"_Dead, Dad. My line: she's dead."_

"_Right. Never forget your lines. Never."_

* * *

Speed increasing, tires squealing in turns. The sound of her, inside. Roaring, screaming.

* * *

"_Your cover, Sarah. What's your cover? Walk the line. Don't look down."_

_Highwire over low deeds. _

_Teacher at The Farm. Drilling her._

"_Cover, Sarah?"_

"_Eliza Pearson. Heiress. Debauched. Cunning, not smart. Family fortune dwindling."_

"_Good. And the target? Now, no hesitation."_

"_Horatio Churchyard. Guns. Drugs. Funding terrorism, assassination. Suspected of plotting US embassy attacks…"_

"_Method of execution?"_

"_Poison. Close-quarters. Churchyard has a known heart condition. Drug to overload his system, bring on an attack."_

"_Dead in?"_

"_Two minutes, give or take ten seconds."_

"_How will you cover the time?"_

"_Tear my dress, expose myself, claim Churchyard did it on the dance floor. Keep eyes on me, no sympathy for Churchyard."_

"_Good. Extraction point?"_

"_Top of the building."_

"_Good. If extraction fails?"_

"_Cyanide tablet."_

"_Good, good. You understand you cannot be taken?"_

"_I understand. If necessary, I will be my own target. And my record will stay perfect."_

"_Let's go over it again. Cover?..."_

* * *

Car up on two wheels. Guardrails sudden in headlights. Ravine.

* * *

_Turn the wheel, Sarah. Be your own target. _

_I can't. I can't leave him. Not even if he leaves me._

_Left me._

* * *

Tried to gather her thoughts. Words in order.

Over the years, her internal words, disordered. Minimized. Disintegrated. _Preserve the self by never allowing it to form, become determinate_. The unformed and the non-existent: hard to tell apart.

_Think only about the mission. Don't reflect. Collect. Recollect. Don't. Don't ingather your words. You'll see yourself. Formed and informed. Bitter harvest of regret and pain._

* * *

Ravine.

Pumped the brakes.

_Chuck cannot save himself._

Stopped the car. On the berm, the edge. Engine idling. Headlights stabbing the California darkness.

Graham.

The assassin had the address. Carina.

A suicide mission. But she could do it. Kill Graham before he killed her. His agents killed her. The burned spy conflagrated, one last blaze of glory. Pyrotechnic. Graham and the assassin, joint funeral pyre. Creator and creature.

_Where the worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched…For every one shall be salted with fire, and every sacrifice shall be salted with salt._

Headlights slicing sideways, the assassin turned the car.

Back to the city.

ooOoo

Almost there.

Ingather.

_Reflect._

_I am in love with him. With Chuck. Maybe, maybe he loves me, loved me, loves me too. But I ruined it. It was damned from the beginning. Damnation like a contagion, like death._

_Dead flies. Dead moth. Dead assassin. _

_He thought we made love. In the cabin. In the hotel. Chuck inside of me. A lifetime's worth. We did. Love. Loved. Made love. _

_Always thought the phrase a bit of self-hypnosis. Syrup on steroids. No. _

'Made love.' The exact phrase.

_Made. An act of creation, a making. Something made, something shared. Not just coincident feelings. The cohabitation of a reality. _

_Love. No experience with it but I feel it. I know it._

_A lifetime's worth, Chuck. _

Dead. Or, dying. The assassin.

Sarah struggling to life. _...When I would do good, evil is present with me...O wretched woman that I am! Who shall deliver me from the body of this death? _

Sarah.

Sarah, strong enough to redirect the shot at Chuck, not strong enough to confess.

_End Graham. I will do it for Chuck. I will do it for me. I will do it for us. The us I hoped would be._

_So be it._

_I will end Graham. And I will end. And, lo, I am with you always, Chuck, even unto the end... _

_Amen and amen. _

_It was right that you left me._

ooOoo

The assassin, Sarah, the assassin parked the car two blocks from the address after driving by it once. Clearly, CIA safe house.

It would be a fortress.

She considered her handgun.

Loaded.

Uncasketed the rifle.

Loaded.

Let it rest, stock in her lap, barrel toward the passenger seat. Chuck's seat.

And then it struck the assassin. — _She_, Sarah, _had known_. Known Chuck would see. Had been wondering about the rifle. Thinking. Witnessed the shot at Carina. Knew he would figure it out. Not a confession of word but of deed. Showed him herself, guilty, even if she could not tell. Showed.

Strong enough for that.

She put the driver's window down. Wind had died. Air still, cool, fresh.

Sarah glanced into the rearview mirror. Nodded goodbye to the woman reflected. If she was strong enough for that confession, she was strong enough to get to Graham, fight her way in. One final termination.

Strong enough.

To do what was necessary. — This was what she had left. The right thing to do.

_Payback is a bitch_.

She put her hand on the door handle, drew a slow, deep breath. A breath so long, so slow, a deep breath of the cool air.

A lifetime's worth.

Her burner vibrated as she braced to open the door. Out of her pocket. A call from the other burner.

Soft, unsure. "Hello?"

"Sarah?"

"Chuck?"

"Sarah, don't."

* * *

A/N: Thoughts?

I am busy with the beginning-of-semester teaching stuff. It may be the weekend before the story continues.


	19. Gates of Hell

A/N: Found some time to squeeze in a chapter. One or two more chapters in the second arc, depending on how I break up the material.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Nineteen: Gates of Hell

* * *

"Chuck?"

"Sarah, Sarah, _don't_."

"Don't?"

"Don't go after Graham alone. Don't kill yourself...get yourself killed…Please don't." His voice wavered, his tone urgent yet quiet. "I'm not worth it."

Silence, hers. Hand on the door handle. Gates to Hell. Handgun, rifle, loaded. Decision made. The end.

_The Gates to Hell_. The assassin saw that once, trailing a target, _The Musée Rodin_, Paris. Entrance to Dante. Welcome to _The Inferno. "Abandon every hope, who enter here."_

That target, long dead.

Ago.

But. Yet. Chuck on the phone.

Not every hope abandoned. Hand off the door handle.

"Sarah? Are you still there?"

"You are, Chuck. Worth it. To me."

Silence, his. At long last: "But you shot me." Now, less accusation than fact of hard record.

Her record, no longer perfect. But better. _No mistakes_: a decree of damnation. _Can there be a saving mistake, for someone beyond salvage?_

Fought for words. Sarah fought. So hard to explain. "I did." Paused then launched. "You know how...you know how they say the past is fixed, Chuck, unchangeable, fully determinate?"

"Um...yeah…"

"And they say the future is the opposite, unfixed, changeable, indeterminate?"

"Yeah…"

Still fighting for words. Some. Adequate. Any. "My...past pulled the trigger, Chuck, but my future...reoriented the aim. The gun barrel the extent of my...present. I was caught in a moment of...transition. Still am."

She looked down at the rifle in her lap. "It's all...That's...all I know to say. I understand...if you don't...understand. I don't completely..." She finished, her tongue exhausted.

Another silence, his and hers.

"And, Chuck…"

Sounded like he'd been pulled up from deep thought: "What?"

"We made love."

More silence. _Whose? _The world, silent. The whole, wide world.

"There's three slices of veggie pizza, no olives, waiting for you here, Sarah. Come back. I don't know...what happens now, next. Us. But not _that_, not what you are going to do…"

"How did you know, Chuck?"

"I pay attention, Sarah. Especially to you. Carina double-crossed you and you...paid her back. Graham...too. And I hurt you...the things I said. I wanted them to hurt you…And they did, I realize that. So, I had a leap of intuition. To where you are.

"Come back, Sarah."

"Do the others know, know I shot you?"

"Ah...yeah, I wasn't...in full control of myself...when I came in, right after you left."

"So, Ellie knows. She must loathe me...absolutely loathe me…"

"Jury's out on that, Sarah. Sorry — I didn't mean for that to sound flippant if it did. — I can't speak for Ellie, Sarah, even though we've talked. But she put the phone in my hand.

"Come back, Sarah. You must be hungry."

Sarah nodded although Chuck could not see her. "I am. Have been."

They both heard the echo, their earlier conversation. Silence, theirs.

"Okay, Chuck, I'm coming back. — We need to figure this out quickly. _Omaha. _We need a plan."

"I'm working on it. — You're coming back? Promise?"

"I promise. Bye, Chuck."

"Bye, Sarah."

Started the car. Left the window down. Still, cool air. Kept her promise.

ooOoo

Car parked, dread spiked.

Walked to the door. Not the assassin but Sarah.

Face her deeds, the assassin's deeds. The door opened before Sarah could reach it.

"No, Chuck. I want to talk to her alone. Give us a minute." Ellie. Pushing Chuck back from the door. His eyes touch Sarah's. Away.

Ellie closed the door. The dark closed around them. Dawn not so distant, tendrils out.

Sarah stopped. Stood. Ellie stepped to her.

Smacked Sarah so hard Sarah nearly fell. The sound echoed in the dark. Cheek burned. The blow and the shame.

"You. You _shot _him."

Head down. Nod. No words. None. Mute admission.

"But you saved him. Over and over."

Sudden glance up. Ellie's eyes burning as Chuck's had burned, sibling flames.

"I did. I had to. Have to. I'll never let anyone hurt him, not if I can stop it."

The weight of that rifle shot, the bullet into Chuck, carried in her words. Regret.

And more. A promise.

Ellie stood, breathing hard.

"And you are in love with my brother."

Not a question, a fact of hard record. _No use to deny it_. Not an excuse. A fact of hard record. New record. Pages unmarked. The first entry, a nod. _Yes._

"So, you do. Even though you told me what you told me before. Before, when you _lied_ to me."

"Yes, Ellie." Head up, face the consequences.

"He's hurting."

"His shoulder?"

"Yes, damn you, his shoulder. And, yes, damn you, his heart. Both your fault. Your responsibility."

Ellie smacked Sarah again, harder. Sarah blinked back tears. Took it.

"If I didn't hate you, I'd hug you." Ellie turned. Opened the door.

Sarah entered.

Mausoleum. Morgan, Devon, staring, immobile. Eyes unsure, wary. Distant. Chuck, back to Sarah at the small table, computer open.

Ellie closed the door.

On the small table near Chuck, a paper plate. Slices of pizza. Warm. Sarah could smell them.

Sat down next to Chuck. He did not look at her. Studying the screen. Typing. Muttering to himself.

The pizza was good. She was starving.

Sarah was.

Surprised.

Sauce on her fingers, thick, red. Chuck saw it, her hand, sauce, looked up at her. She looked at him, at her hand, sauce. He handed her a napkin from the table's opposite side.

Sarah wiped her hand. Chuck watched. Swallowed. Turned back to the screen.

Sarah finished slice in silence, surprised she could stomach anything.

Chuck stopped muttering. Fingers frozen. "Oh, Jesus."

The silent room became more deeply silent, latent tension patent.

Chuck looked at Sarah. "Does the codename _Sandwall_ mean anything to you?"

Dropped her second slice. "_Sandwall. _Yes, my early days in the Agency. A mission. My first termination."

Chuck's eyes widened. "Yours?"

"No, no. Not like that. It was the first time I _witnessed_ a termination." She felt the others nearing the table, listening. "Sometimes, when there's a particular urgency about the termination, when...no mistakes can be made...someone is sent to...watch...to _confirm_...the kill."

"That is so, so not awesome." Devon, quiet.

Sarah stared at the tabletop. "Yeah. It was Graham's way of...initiating me into...wetwork. Took me weeks to get over it…" She shuddered at the distant memory brought close. "A gateway drug, the gates of Hell…"

"Who was the target?" Chuck's voice sounded choked.

"A woman. Middle-aged. A traitor, or so I was told. Short hair, glasses. She had been on the run for a while. I was carrying a recent photo of her, taken by someone in Moscow, where she was found, terminated. The agent who was tasked with the termination was a man named Osgood. He was killed on a mission a few months later…I never was told the woman's name."

Everyone closed around the table. Sarah's voice had grown softer. "Why?"

Chuck blinked several times, stared at the computer screen. "Because _Sandwall _was the clean-up of _Omaha. _Its disposal. Everyone associated with it is dead. Everyone. Including the agents who carried out the terminations, the other witnesses, confirmers. The woman you saw die was the final subject of the _Omaha _experiments.

"You are the last person alive with any _direct_ tie from _Sandwall_ to _Omaha. _Well, you and Langston Graham. He oversaw both. The woman you saw executed, Tina Justice, was probably the last person to see our parents alive. They were...terminated a few weeks before, also by Osgood. They were in Moscow too. I finally put the puzzle together. Graham. Son of a bitch."

The room, mausoleum. No sound, except Ellie's slow sobs. Devon's soft soothings.

Sarah's left hand on the table near Chuck's right.

Need.

Untouching. Apart.

A bullet's length.

So, so long.

* * *

A/N: Thoughts, reactions? I really appreciate all the engaged responses and PMs. This was a risky thing to try, and so I have been particularly eager for responses.


	20. Regroup

A/N: Final chapter of the second arc.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Twenty: Regroup

* * *

Sarah saw Chuck look at his hand. Near hers.

Distances telescoped into distance, moments into a moment.

Her heart into her heart.

Moved it away. His hand. From hers. To the keyboard.

Ellie's sobs. Devon stroking her hair.

Chuck glanced toward Ellie, his eyes full of pain. Blinked it back.

Ellie's face buried in Devon's shoulder. Morgan lost, uncertain, feet shuffling, eyes shifting — Ellie and Devon, Chuck and Sarah.

Chuck considered Sarah, a long look. Measured. Intent. His eyes shifted down for a second to her hand, still on the table. Shifted up.

Lips pressed together, sealed. Imprisoned speech.

A glance at the computer screen. Sarah followed Chuck's eyes. Open tabs, different sizes. An assortment of documents, photographs. Puzzle pieces.

Later, a moment. Spoke. Did not turn to her. "You didn't know that _Sandwall_ was more…That it was not just that mission, Osgood?"

Sarah shook her head. "No, in fact...Graham never used it, the codename. Osgood mentioned it, once, in passing. I just assumed it was for our mission, a one-off mission…" Sarah heard her own phrase and winced. Glanced around the room. "Sorry...I just thought the mission was only about the target."

Ellie had lifted her head. Was following. "Chuck, what was _Omaha_? What were Mom and Dad doing? What got them…got them..._murdered_?" Flick. Ellie's eyes, Sarah.

Chuck stood. Sarah and Ellie. Between them.

"El, I haven't figured every detail out, but..._Omaha _was a project, intended to produce...superspies. Using computers — AI, actually...supplemented with drugs…"

"Wait, like _MKUltra_?!" Ellie wiped her eyes. Disbelief.

Chuck shrugged. Unsure. "Sort of. The basic idea was Dad's, I think. It's what caused the CIA to send Mom to him."

"Wait," Devon, "Your Mom was a spy?"

"Mrs. B? Mary?" Morgan added. "Like _Natasha Fatale_? So, was Mr. B _Boris Badenov_?"

Frowning. Chuck. "No, Morgan, not like that. — Yes, Mom was a spy. No, Dad was not a spy. But he was, technically, a CIA scientist."

"But you said they were in _Moscow_…" Morgan, still befuddled.

Chuck shifted attention from Morgan to Ellie. "The enhancements were to be downloaded into the brain of the spy. The drugs, some witches brew of hallucinogens and who knows what else, I can't find any document with the...full recipe...The brew was to 'open' the mind, better to enable the downloading, to allow the downloading to be more permanent, deeper, to prepare the mind for what was downloaded…"

"And Dad did this?" Ellie's voice was shaky.

"Yes, eventually. Initially, it looks like he balked, Sis. He thought the program failed, declared it a failure, submitted his resignation. Another scientist was brought in, a woman. She brought the drugs with her. Graham somehow forced Dad to stay on. Mom stayed too.

Chuck paused. "Putting this together...I mean...I could be getting it wrong, but this is how the pieces seem to fit. The downloading, before the drugs, didn't work. The subjects could download the enhancements, but they didn't last. A few minutes, in rare cases, maybe a few hours. But the drugs allowed for the enhancements to be permanent, or at least to last much longer.

"The problem was that the combination of enhancements and drugs resulted in each subject...losing it. Going crazy. Becoming deadly. Most died a few days after the download. The few who survived became...monsters. They were...put down."

Ellie's eyes on Sarah, despite Chuck between them.

"Only this...Tina Justice...managed the download and drugs, and managed to hold it together, sort of, but she ran. Mom and Dad escaped at the same time. A few others who were part of the project too. Maybe Mom and Dad were helped by Justice or helped her.

"Graham had gone way, way past anything he could justify; he was way, way off-the-books. I assume he was pursuing the _forgiveness rather than permission_ strategy, figuring a spectacular result would be the end that justified his means. But he had no result, and he needed it all to go away, forever.

"So, _Sandwall. _He sealed the underground labs and sent assassins...to terminate the escapees. It took some time, but _Sandwall_...cut...all the links to _Omaha _and then Graham eliminated everyone involved in _Sandwall. _

"Except her." Ellie, a sidestep. Her finger aimed at Sarah.

Met Ellie's eyes. "I don't understand it, Ellie. Why he involved me then let me live. But...he must have changed his mind, because I found out — from that man they found on the stairs in the hospital, his name was Ryker — I found out that Graham burned me."

Chuck turned quickly.

Ellie dropped her finger. Replaced it with a glare. "What's that mean?"

"That I was done. Out. Fired. But worse. He may have marked me for termination. In fact, I now think that was his plan all along. Use me to...end...the threat of _Omaha_'s resurrection, and then break the last link to _Sandwall._"

Dropped her eyes. Everyone staring at her. _End. End Chuck. Graham sent me. I pulled the trigger._

Mausoleum.

"Folks," Devon, "let's get some sleep. We've all been up all night and it's been...emotional. We'll think better if we manage even a few hours of sleep. Are we safe here, Sarah?"

"Yes, I think so. And you are right. We need to rest. We can figure out where to go from here after we sleep."

Ellie finally stopped staring at Sarah. Glanced at Devon. "Okay, so why don't you men sleep out here? Sarah and I can take the bedroom. I saw some blankets in that little closet in the hallway. They're threadbare but clean. None of us will be comfortable" — a glance at Sarah — "but we're so tired that won't matter much. Probably."

Everyone nodded.

No one spoke. Tension in the apartment like an odor. And pizza.

Chuck sat, shut the computer. Rubbed his eyes. Sarah started. Stopped. To reach for him.

_Want, need. _

Between them, so much and so little. Time and space and love.

Sarah left him, no words. To the bedroom with Ellie, struggling to hold her head up. Felt it sinking into her empty chest.

ooOoo

Awake.

Incoming waves of pain and regret and defeat. Sarah fought the undertow.

Warm, though. Very warm.

Ellie on the end of the bed. Perched. Staring. Bird of prey.

Indictment.

"I don't get it."

Sarah pushed herself back. The stained, paint-chipped headboard. "What?'

"How a person can do...what you do. A _person._ Are you a person, Sarah, or are you something else...I don't know...some kind of machine?…"

_T-800, Terminator. Cyborg._

Looked down, away from Ellie's too-penetrating gaze. Noticed an extra blanket, picked up its edge.

"Chuck."

"Huh?"

"In the night, my fool brother snuck in and put that on you, extra. And he's been out there without any blanket. My brother...believes you're a person, still...but…"

Tears in sandy eyes. _Chuck. _Wiped and rubbed them all at once.

"Well, Sarah, are you a person?"

"I'm _trying_ to be. But for a long time, no. Not in the sense you mean, where being a person is a...a kind of _achievement_. I've just been a person in...in...the lowest sense."

"How did you get here? You can't have just decided one day as a kid that you would grow up and terminate people…"

"No, I didn't." Sat up straighter. "My childhood was...abnormal...my life. But I know now, I'm beginning to know now, that I'd had enough. More than enough. I had...wanted out all along but I hid that fact from myself.

"But recently, I must've failed to hide it from Graham. I don't think he burned me, ordered me dead, simply because I was a link to _Sandwall_. I've been a link for a long time. He must have sensed a change in me, and that change made him worry about what I knew. Before, he wasn't worried. He thought I was his...robot...he..._owned me_."

Ellie pursed her lips and looked away. "Chuck's surgeon. He said that shot was a miracle. Chuck told me you said you...shifted your aim...shot him there on purpose. But, shit, Sarah," Ellie's voice grew in intensity, "why shoot him at all? If you'd changed your mind?"

"I don't...Look, Ellie, have you ever been driving and realized you'd missed your turn?"

Ellie nodded, her face puzzled. "Sure…"

"But you were moving too fast to make the turn in time, so you took the next turn instead, once you'd slowed down?"

"Yeah…"

"On that roof, I was going in the direction I had always gone, going at speed, and then I changed...saw your brother, he smiled in my scope," Sarah drifted into the memory, saw Ellie's reaction, left it, "...and I changed direction, but it was too late to take the turn. My whole life was...barreling in one direction and it took time to...redirect it. I pulled the trigger but changed my aim."

Ellie stared. Stared. Shook her head, Ellie did, like chasing away the vestiges of a nightmare. "I still don't get it. — But I guess we're...stuck with you. We need you. Chuck needs you. — What are we going to do, Sarah?"

"Get showers, get dressed, eat. Then we'll face all this. Together."

"The guys have showered. You go, Sarah," Ellie gestured at the closed bedroom door. "I need a minute."

Sarah stood.

Surprised.

Rested. Unwobbly.

Pain, regret, and defeat. Receded. The tide. Gone out.

Outside, bright sun, light through the curtain's edges.

_I am not a machine._ _Not Nobody — somebody. _

_Somebody with an extra blanket_.

She would save Chuck, save Ellie, Devon, and Morgan.

Save them.

Or die trying.

* * *

A/N: End of the second arc, _Lying Promises. _

Tune in next time for the first chapter of the third and final arc, _In the Cool Tombs_.

I managed time to write this week but I am not sure how things will go for the next week or two. New, unexpected projects. Don't look for quite-so-regular updates.

Thoughts?


	21. Coast to Coast?

A/N: The first chapter of arc three, _In the Cool Tombs_. Easing us in after the difficult chapters that closed the second arc.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Twenty-One: Coast to Coast?

* * *

Slow.

Super slow.

They took it super slow, the long drive. LA to DC.

Moving in obscurity. Under the radar, Graham's, as it were. The official search for Chuck had moved from below-the-fold news to crooked-numbered pages, old news, but still...Always a hat on, his beard growing in.

Liked it, Sarah did, the beard. Wanted to touch it, feel it against her skin. But Chuck always out of reach.

Back roads, potholes and construction crews. Cheap motels, dingy but comfortable enough. Local restaurants, food mostly bad but peopled with characters.

Sarah saw America, a swath of it, as she never had before. Not beneath her in a jet, but beside her out a car window.

Over, Nevada, up, Idaho, Montana, right, North Dakota, Minnesota, diagonal down, Iowa, across the Midwest and into West Virginia.

The mountains.

ooOoo

Five people, a brown sedan. Chuck always in the other seat. Sarah back, Chuck front. Sarah front, Chuck back. Two motel rooms. Three men, one motel room, two women, the other.

Chuck, no unnecessary talk with Sarah. Sarah, silent almost all the time. Looking out her window, glancing at the others. Chuck.

But there was talk. By Idaho, there was talk. By Chuck and by Morgan. By Devon and Ellie. Chuck and Ellie. By everyone at once.

Except for Sarah. She, silent, forgotten, the car untensed.

Never such talk before, not for Sarah.

Bizarre circumstances, danger, and yet, talk. Loving talk.

Memories, good ones. Jokes. Sing-a-longs. Stories and stories and stories. Chuck's boyhood. Devon's college football exploits. Morgan's disastrous, junior-high attempts at romance. In high school. Ellie's med school travails.

Laughter in extremity, but real, heartfelt laughter.

Never before. She laughed too, really laughed. Sarah laughed. Charmed by all but especially Chuck.

Falling more, more in love mile-marker by mile-marker. More. Her love stretching from California eastward.

Listening. No stories to share, willing to share.

But she was not forgotten. Not really. Not completely.

Chuck, driving, eyes flicking into the rearview. Onto Sarah. Checking. Ellie, sidelong looks. Devon and Morgan, a few attempts at small talk.

Motels rooms with Ellie. Ellie watching, asking questions, pointed. Tried to answer. A little talk about her abnormal childhood. Her father.

The Sunday Special.

Ellie talking to Chuck in whispers, breakfast table. Both glancing at her as Sarah, late rising, entered. Whispers ended. Glances in other directions.

ooOoo

Stop at a roadside rest, late afternoon. Minnesota. Deserted. Chuck found an old Frisbee under a bench. Impromptu game of Keep-Away. Rules unclear. Everyone included — although Chuck could only play carefully, still protecting his shoulder.

Sarah, long, fast, athletic, agile. Perfect hand-eye coordination. Too much for all of them, even Devon at the last. She stood with the frisbee over her head. Victor. Devon gulping for breath on the ground. Others, Chuck, cheering her.

Laughter, so much laughter. Danger forgotten. Differences forgotten.

Joy. Known.

Pure, selfless, absorbed-by-the-moment, horizon-to-horizon — joy.

Unknown, until just then. Not even known in childhood.

The world, the whole wide world, her home, not a strange land, her estranged, a stranger, in it. At home. Chuck smiling at her, bullet forgotten. Her harp taken down from the willow.

But the moment passed.

Back in the car. Remembered bullet. Silent, listening. Chuck in the other seat.

Always, the other seat.

ooOoo

They were heading for a deserted spot in the West Virginia mountains. Almost there. The _Omaha _labs.

The tombs of _Omaha. _

They left LA and headed east. Avoiding direct confrontation with Graham.

Chuck convinced them. Maybe something in the labs, something that would substantiate Chuck's understanding of _Omaha_, of _Sandwall. _

Something that would decisively incriminate Graham.

The thumb drive: full of evidence, but perhaps not decisive.

But Sarah knew. Knew Graham. Knew the shadows of US Intelligence, the desperate desire to stay enshadowed. To remain undiscovered. To avoid scandal, light. _Omaha _and _Sandwall_ denied, re-buried.

Unless the charges were undeniable, too immortal to encoffin.

ooOoo

Sarah was ready for bed.

Twin beds in the room. Ellie already in one, blankets covering all of her. Except her head. Gazing up, at the ceiling.

"Chuck's shoulder. The wound. It's healed. I took the stitches out a while ago when you were showering. He's been moving it. Too much at the start, but the stitches mostly held and that movement kept it mobile. It's still tender but soon all there will be is...the scar. He'll have to regain some strength in it. But…"

Ellie shrugged beneath the covers. "But...you know, he's not sleeping. Devon told me but I can see it. You can too. Or you would, if you were sleeping...You're kind of creeping me out, making me uneasy, lying there for hours, your eyes open. In the dark. I wonder what you're thinking — if you're remembering...the things you've done."

"Sometimes. Sometimes not. Mostly, I'm just trying. Not to think. I spend a lot of time doing that. I used to be good at it, a champ."

Ellie kept staring upward. "I can't imagine your life, Sarah. I'm a doctor. The Hippocratic oath. I'm on Team Life. You, on Team…"

"Not anymore, Ellie," Sarah jumped in, "I quit that...Team. I'm on...Life's side. Your side. Chuck's side."

"Then you two need to talk. I don't know if I can forgive you, Sarah. I don't know...maybe, in time, I can just forget, or get enough distance that I can see you without imagining you pulling that trigger. But maybe my forgiveness isn't what matters. Not really. Chuck's is. Make him talk to you. He's miserable. Not his shoulder, his heart."

"I'm no good at talking. Not as myself, not when it matters."

"Then make him talk to you. My ears are ringing from listening to you two not-talk."

Swallowed. "I'm afraid, Ellie. Afraid he will tell me that what I did _was_ unforgivable...the sin against the Holy Spirit."

Ellie's brow furrowed. Studied the ceiling. "_The Holy Spirit?_ I don't know anything about that, although I guess it must be the Bible?"

"Yeah. A sin for which there is no repentance, no forgiveness"

"Wow," Ellie rolled over toward Sarah and turned off the lamp and dark filled the room. "An assassin quoting scripture. — Sunday Special?"

A beat of silence.

"Yes, I'm a mixed-up girl."

Another beat.

"You were...mixed-up. Maybe...Anyway...Talk to Chuck. You both need the sleep."

Sarah nodded but did not speak. Rolled away from Ellie, eyes open.

ooOoo

Breakfast.

Pile of fatty bacon, scrambled eggs, chatty waitress. Burnt toast.

Lull in the conversation.

"Chuck," Sarah started, everyone turning to her, "I've been wondering. You said another scientist joined _Omaha_, a woman, but you never mentioned her name."

Nodding Chuck: "Right. Because I don't know it. It's nowhere. No photos, no signatures. Nothing. Just a couple of mentions on documents, reports. She's referred to as 'the new scientist' a few times, and once as 'she'. I tried and tried to figure it out as we've been on the road…" He scratched his chin, new-beard itch.

"Yeah, at night," Morgan mumbled around a bite of not-so-crispy bacon, "when _we_ should be sleeping."

Chuck's eyes away from Sarah. "Well, anyway, she's a mystery. I have no idea why. I have no idea who she was. A missing piece in the puzzle."

"Was she...terminated in _Sandwall_?"

Shrugging Chuck: "Don't know. She's not named among the escapees, but I can't imagine Graham would have just let her go…"

"Chuck," Ellie broke in, "is there really any reason to think there's _anything_ down there, in _Omaha_? Wouldn't Graham have burnt the place, or filled it with cement, or something?"

Chuck glanced at Sarah. She answered. "Unlikely. The location was only known to Graham and the other _Omaha _participants. He made sure they...well…" Stopped. Cleared her throat.

Continued. "...And massive destruction or construction, explosions, fires, or cement, would have drawn attention to the site. Likely the entrance is hidden, obscured. And sealed. It may take some work to get down there. But I'm convinced it's there, down there, down in _Omaha_."

Stared down at the table, everyone at once.

Morgan swallowed. "And we're going..._down there_?"

Devon, large hand on Morgan's shoulder. "You can stay up top, Morgan, and be the lookout."

"All alone?" Morgan swallowed again, finally choked down the chewy bacon. "This is...creepy…Like some shadowy _Anime_ remake of a Scooby-Doo episode..."

Chuck, odd look, direct, the first long one at Sarah since the frisbee. He smiled, forced his really nice smile. Anomalism. "I guess we shouldn't have buried the shovel and pick?"

Ellie. Made a face, confused. Asked. "Huh?"

Sarah dropped her head.

"Nothing," Chuck returned.

* * *

A/N: Thoughts? Reactions?


	22. Agent of Record

A/N: Still working our way into the third arc.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Twenty-Two: Agent of Record

* * *

Ellie, lost. "Shovel? What shovel? What pick?"

Sarah, head up. Saw regret. Chuck's eyes. Smile vanished beneath. "Really, nothing, Sis."

Tension returned to the table. Everyone looking at everyone, except for Chuck and Sarah, not looking at each other.

Sarah: "I need to make a trip to DC. We need supplies. More cash. I can be there and back by dark. Please, stay in the rooms. Eat here. Pay cash. No calls. No internet. Okay?"

Ellie glanced at Chuck. "Okay, if you take him," she pointed at her brother, "_and_ that thing on his face with you."

"You don't like the beard?" Chuck.

"You look like you tripped facefirst into West Virginia roadkill."

Morgan choked on burnt toast. Devon pounded his back, hard, hand a hammer.

"Aw, C'mon, Ellie, it's not that bad."

Morgan coughed, toast into his hand, air into his lungs. Looked around the restaurant, red, fisted the regurgitated bread. Ducked his head. Used his other hand, napkin.

"Go, Chuck." Ellie saw Sarah start to protest. "_Take him_."

Sarah started her protest again but stopped. _Need._ "Alright. Take your hat, Chuck, and your jacket. There are cameras all over DC, and not just in tourists' hands."

ooOoo

Driving eastward. DC. City she called home. So-called.

Cache of items in storage. Fake name. Amory and treasury. Destination.

Miles passed. Curves hairpinned. Sarah's nerves taut. Afraid to talk. Afraid not to talk. Mouth dry. No words.

But. "I'm sorry, Sarah. That...the tool comment..._unfunny_." Chuck's voice, strained.

"I buried those, Chuck, _before_ I slept with you."

"I know."

Ruminations times two. Both quiet.

"What is the official name for someone sent to witness a termination, like you were with Justice, Osgood?"

"_Agent of record_."

"Have you ever done that again?"

"No. A few times, I have had one with me, times when..._I_ was Osgood."

"Graham sent you as agent of record to groom you, didn't he? He was already planning to have Osgood terminated. He wanted to know how you would react. He was planning on making you Osgood."

"I don't know. I guess so. Looking back. Then, it was all just happening, and so fast. Graham started me at a frenzy and kept speeding me up. A constant fever. No downtime. No breaks. One mission blended imperceptibly into the next. One never-ending mission, punctuated by..." _Death. _"All I did was...work." _Kill. All I did was kill. _

Chuck shook his head. "Bastard. Goddamn bastard."

"He is," Sarah agreed quietly, "but I was...running...before he got me, sped me up. Fevered me.

"My...my mom...she died in childbirth. _Me_. I'm the reason she's dead, me. I've been running from that since I was old enough to understand it, running from death...to death…"

"God, Sarah! I didn't…" Reached for her hand. Took it. Held it. "That's awful."

"I didn't slow down until a few months ago. Remember, I...I told you I got shot, was operated on." Clouds over, hid the sun. Mourning. Noonday dim, grey. Light rain fell.

Chuck shook his head. Stopped. "Oh." Nodded. "Right, you did. We were talking about _It Happened One Night._ You were shot?"

Wipers on.

"A mission. Sideways in the final seconds. It went sideways in the final seconds. Target saw me, got off a shot a split second after mine. He was dead before he knew if he hit me. He did. In the side. Managed to get to...I managed to crawl away to a hiding place. Put in a call, back-up came, but hours later. Thought I would bleed out.

"I was in surgery for a while, then in the hospital for a couple of weeks. The first time I slowed down, the first time I was free of the frenzy...I started...thinking. So much blood loss. Remembering. Told myself I didn't care. Too late to care. But I should have realized telling myself that meant that I did care, too late or not. Graham came to take me back to DC. Private jet. Thanks. I wonder if he could tell then…"

"But...I...I've _seen_ you, all of you...And, um, I didn't see a scar, feel a scar."

Frowned. "CIA plastic surgeons. They've erased a number of my scars over the years. That was the most severe one. Damage done but the record altered, you know?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry, Sarah, about your mom, the scars, the...frenzy." Thumb over the knuckles of her hand, warm, then he took his hand away.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see soon enough."

Silent after that, silent for a long time.

The grey of the asphalt a turning conveyor belt into the grey of the horizon. Rain.

ooOoo

A non-descript storage facility with a stupid name in a rainstorm. Car parked. Ran to the right-numbered door. Combination lock. Sarah opened it, soaking, led Chuck inside. Turned on the light.

Shook off the rain. Both. Chuck pushed his hat back.

Inside, a long, low wooden box against the wall. A heavy safe in the corner. A file cabinet, metal. Combination lock on it. A cardboard box, flaps closed but unsealed.

"So, what is this?" He gestured at the room itself, not its contents.

"My unhope chest."

"Huh?"

Bitter smile. "The whole thing. For a...rainy day."

She walked to the safe, knelt down, worked the combination. Opened it and stood back. Cash in bundles. Mostly US dollars, but foreign currencies too. Passports. Credit cards. Identities. Chuck stepped forward, bent and gazed inside, then up.

"How much?"

"A lot. I've been on the job a long time. So long. Everyone does it. You never know when you might have to go to ground, run — or who you might be running from. Over time, expenses padded, cash supposedly demanded by contacts, diversions of funds. A nest egg. Retirement, insurance, such as it is."

Chuck stepped away. Sarah grabbed two stacks of dollars. Another set of credit cards. A matching passport.

"What's this?" Chuck had opened the cardboard box. Staring inside.

"Don't!"

Too late. Chuck's hand in the box. Pulled out a teddy bear. Brown. Worn. One eye missing. Dirty red bowtie around its neck. Stuffing bulging from a backside split seam where its arm met its shoulder. "Yours?"

Silent nod. "That's..._Bumby_."

"Bumby?" Chuck kept his face straight.

Sarah stepped to Chuck, took Bumby. Held him in her hands, arm's length. Hugged him to her. Desperate. "I loved him so when I was little."

Stared down into the one-eyed face. Red-felt smile above the smudged bowtie. Hugged him again and then the tears came. Hugging Bumby, weeping. And then arms around her, around Bumby. Chuck. Crying too. His beard against her cheek.

"Chuck," words, finally possible, words, "Chuck, I don't know how to make it right. What I did. I don't..."

His voice was hoarse, uneven. "You didn't kill me. And then you saved me, and made love to me, and saved me some more. And my family, and Morgan. I've been hugging it to me, that shot. Holding it against you. It's been making me sick. I've spent two nights with you and now I can't sleep without you."

Sarah stepped back a bit. "When I was little, I couldn't sleep without him, Bumby. But now I can't sleep without you. I know it'll take time but I can't be...apart...like we've been.

"But we don't have to be...together. If you don't want to make love to me, I understand. I hope you will want that again someday. But I can't be separated from you, at odds with you. Stay with me tonight when we get back, please, Chuck. I like Ellie, but..."

He wiped his eyes. Crooked smile. "Will Bumby be in the bed too?"

Sarah smiled shyly. Nodded. "I can't leave him behind now." Wiped her eyes.

Chuck laughed softly. "Not the threesome Carina imagined."

ooOoo

Items gathered. Not just cash and cards. Weapons from the long wooden box.

Locks locked. Left the storage facility right after the rain stopped.

Pointed the car back toward West Virginia. Afternoon sky dark and the threat of more rain.

Chuck drove. Sarah against him. Bumby in her lap.

* * *

A/N: Thoughts?


	23. Family Values

A/N: On we go. Final preludial chapter for the third arc.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Twenty-Three: Family Values

* * *

Shower on. Sarah heard it.

Chuck in it.

Sarah, showered and stretched out on her bed, Chuck's UCSB t-shirt and a pair of shorts, the last bought on the road, Montana somewhere.

Bumby in her lap.

Warm all over, and still warming. Slid her feet under the blanket, reflex.

Her mind wandered to an hour or so earlier.

Outside the restaurant, conversation with Ellie. Chuck and Devon and Morgan in the restaurant, ordering.

Dinner.

* * *

_Ellie gave Sarah a long, hard look. _

"_So, Chuck tells me that sleeping arrangements are changing. Devon and Morgan will be with me, you with Chuck."_

"_You told me that we needed to talk, Ellie. We finally did. I asked him to stay with me. So we can sleep. Tomorrow we go after _Omaha_."_

_Ellie, crossed arms, foot tapping. "This is a bizarre situation, you know. I find out that my brother has fallen for...an assassin and that she...has fallen for him. That the same assassin shot my brother— then saved him, and Morgan, and Devon and me._

"_And then I find out my parents were involved in the CIA, and are dead — I sort of suspected that last part, maybe, in a perverse way, I hoped it because it was at least an explanation for their so-long absence — but they aren't just dead, they've been _murdered_, on an order given by _your _boss, and by a man, Osgood, whose place _you _took." Ellie stopped and uncrossed her arms._

"_And now…" She closed her mouth as if she had run out of words. She huffed, started again. "Why are we talking about this? If Chuck wants you with him, I can't stop it."_

_Tired. Ellie looked tired. Spent. They all did. _Who knows what happens tomorrow? "_Because I want this to be okay with you too. — Why did you send him with me back in LA, send him with me to DC?"_

"_Because, crazy as this sounds, I can see that you two need each other. That you need him. And that he needs you." Ellie shook her head. "And because, unhappy or confused or angry or all of the above, Chuck is alive when you are around, despite the fact that you are...were...a killer. As much as I hate it, and as goddamn insane as it is, _you shooting him _brought him to life, or, rather,_ you _did. His killer, his savior...Tell me what sense that makes."_

_Sarah shrugged. "Don't know, Ellie. I keep thinking about the sign over the booth, Chuck's booth, in front of the Buy More. _Ask me how I can help you? _My target, my savior. I was dead, Death, but now...I'm alive. And I hurt...and I'm confused, I see...but I'm blinded by the light. Adjusting." _The clay washed away. "_I can't make it make sense, not even if I were better with words than I am, Ellie. It just has...it has happened. Or, ...is happening. Change. Conversion. A life. A new life._

_Ellie's jaw dropped. "My God, you...you actually _do _love him, don't you."_

_Blood pounded. Heart raced. One nod, all she could manage for a moment, then Sarah spoke. "I didn't deny it when you said it before."_

"_But you...you're planning on leaving. When this is done. Right?"_

_Another shrug, physically painful. "I can't...I can't say. I can't see the future."_

"_But Chuck's always dreamed of a future — a wife, children, a house. Not _Norman Rockwell, _maybe, but..._normal. _Good, wholesome."_

_Blinked. "And that's not me."_

"_You could be a mother, after being an assassin?"_

"Your _mother was," Sarah offered softly, a fact of hard record. "But...I don't know, Ellie. We have to deal with today first. Tomorrow will have to fend for itself for a while."_

"_And — that's another reason, Sarah."_

"_Reason for what, Ellie?"_

"_For letting Chuck go in LA, encouraging him to go today. My Mom. Our Mom. You. I can't stand in final judgment on you without standing in final judgment on her, and I now have no desire to do that. Her life...it must have been more complicated than I ever imagined, than I can understand. I love her and she was a killer. The woman who gave me life."_

"_But she stopped. The terminations. She was a good agent, Ellie. Her name echoes in Langley."_

_Ellie bared her teeth a little, her hazel eyes burning — it was no stretch to see her as Frost's daughter. "Let's hope it deafens that son-of-a-bitch, Graham."_

_Turned, went into the restaurant. Sarah still standing outside. Wet sidewalk shiny black but no rain. Watched dead leaves. Floated and down a drain. _

_Motel sign up the road. Canaan Village Inn. Near Canaan ski resort. Off-season. Nothing but small towns nearby. A good place to hide. _

_The restaurant, Sirianna's, a two-minute walk from the motel. Other than the bacon, the food was good. _

_Sarah followed Ellie inside._

* * *

Shower off. Chuck out.

Standing in the bathroom door, wreathed in steam, towel around his waist.

Wet. Her.

Wet. Him. Drip, drop, drip.

_Please drop the towel and come to me._

Breath quickened. Unsure of Chuck's intention. His eyes on her, his gaze inscrutable above a barely-there grin.

Knock on the door. "Hey, you two. It's me." Ellie. Sarah got up, put Bumby down.

Door open. Ellie, white, standing there, eyes to the left. Empty ice bucket cradled in her arms. Carina, redheaded, standing to the side, gun in her left hand and against Ellie's ribs, visible.

"Hey, Sarah. Long time, no shoot."

"Carina?" Sarah. Disbelief.

"Get inside," Carina whispered, the gun pushing Ellie.

"Carina?" Chuck. Fear.

Carina closed the door, bandaged right hand. Grimaced. Gun still contacting Ellie.

Sarah. "How?"

"Fortune favors the fair, blondie."

"I don't think it goes that way."

Gun pushed Ellie toward the bed. Ellie sat, facing Carina. Bumby. Carina sees him, glances at Sarah, shaking her head. Eyes then narrowed.

"You shot me."

"I should have killed you. And I didn't shoot you, exactly. I shot the bottle out your hand."

"And the bottle into my hand. That was a foreseeable consequence of what you did. Thirty stitches. Four hours digging shards out. A mess."

"You hit Chuck. You were going to give him to Graham. You got less than you deserved."

"Bitch." Ellie.

Smirk, Carina, long smirk, gun moved to Sarah. "Looks like the Boy Scout softened you already, Sarah. I thought you were only interested in hardening him."

"How are you here, Carina?"

Longer smirk, trailing a shrug. "_DEA_, remember. You chose to hide out in the opioid capital of the world, basically. _West Fucking Virginia_. There're a number of DEA agents, men, who, let's say, are _eager _to do me favors. I sent out photos to a few, just in case you headed to DC.

"One of them was here, working an opioid scam case — nearby towns flooded with pills — and he was in the restaurant, this morning. Came in when you and Chuck were gone but he knew _her_," she jabbed the gun at Ellie. "Looks like you and I each know more about the other than the other expected, huh, Sarah?"

"Put the gun down, Carina. Don't make me hurt you again...Don't make me _kill_ you."

"Sarah, don't," Chuck whispered from behind her, his hand holding his towel. Sarah glanced at him, back to Carina.

Sarah braced herself.

Carina's smirk turned artificial, the result of a command, not an expression of genuine smugness. "Don't try it, Sarah. Besides," Carina put up her hands, gun still in the left one but pointed at the ceiling, finger off the trigger, "I came to change teams."

Like a flash, Sarah was on Carina. The gun suddenly in Sarah's hand, Carina on the floor, holding up her bandaged hand and grimacing. "Shit, Sarah, I was surrendering…What kind of friend are you?"

"For now, _your kind_ of friend, the unpredictable kind," Sarah said, the gun now aimed at Carina's head. "Talk, while I'm still willing to listen. Talk fast."

* * *

A/N: If you're out there and haven't responded or haven't in some time, I'd love to hear from you. Thoughts?


	24. Rub-a-Dub-Dub

A/N: Carina talks.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Twenty-Four: _Rub-a-Dub-Dub_

* * *

Carina stared. Not at Sarah. At the barrel of the gun. Down it, a dark path to nowhere.

"Just go ahead. Shoot me. I gave you the chance before. Take it now."

Chuck's hand was on Sarah's shoulder. Warm. "Talk to us, Carina. Why did you betray Sarah, me?"

Carina stood, using her good hand to help, the other close to her chest — faced Chuck and Sarah. Shrugged without conviction.

"Playing the angles. I was in LA, between gigs, missions. Sleeping during the day, in bed awake all night. _Rub-a-dub-dub_."

Chuck clenched his brows. "Huh?"

"She wasn't alone."

"No, I had company, every night. But I got a call, my boss, Houghton, DEA. He and Graham, thick as thieves." Carina intertwined the middle and index fingers of her left hand. "Hell, they are thieves. He told me Graham was coming to town and that I should do what he asked. A raise and a promotion in it for me. Agent-In-Charge on my new team-missions. No working under other agents...except by choice." Small leer.

Serious again. "The story was that you, Sarah, had been acting...strangely. Graham was suspicious of you, worried that you had...changed. Graham _burned_ you shortly after he sent you the mission to...to do Chuck. Houghton claimed Graham burned you to force you to come to yourself, to convince you to submit to a gamut of psych evals. He gave you Chuck as a test. Simple termination, no need for your level of deadly, but he wanted to know if you were still on his leash or...had slipped it.

"He had another team in place in LA. They were to take you if you terminated Chuck, bring you back to DC. If you failed, or bailed, the other team was to terminate Chuck and...you were to be treated as _beyond salvage_, terminated too. When you let Chuck live, you went from burnt to beyond salvage before you took out the other team.

"Graham asked Houghton to send me after you or to get me to tell them where you might be. I told Houghton I would look for you, but that the _beyond salvage _tag had to be lifted. I would turn you over, turn Chuck over, only if I knew that you would get the help you needed, that you would not be terminated. Graham promised Houghton. Houghton promised me. I could get you help, and give myself a leg up. The angles."

Sarah blew out a breath. "And Chuck?"

Carina frowned. "So not my problem. I had no idea who he was then. Or why he mattered — and I still don't have any idea about that. But I made sure no one was tailing me and I went to find you. You were acting...peculiar. You not only hadn't terminated Chuck, but you were nursing him back to health and, Jesus,...you were sleeping with him. _You, the Ice Queen._ Shacked up in the woods with your very own Choir Boy-Toy. I figured Graham was right. _You needed help_. In all the time I knew you, you never slept with a man…"

Saw Ellie shift her attention from Carina to Sarah. Intent gaze.

"...not once. Ever. You seemed...untouchable. Outside of that sort of need or desire. The very idea seemed...to creep you out. Untouchable. But when I found you in the woods, you'd certainly been well-...touched. All dewy and glowy. You!

"I decided the best thing to do was play along. See what was happening. Push on you. And you kept acting more peculiar...You were _rogue. _You had switched sides.

" You were on his...Chuck's side. And that was crazy. And — just as crazy, if not crazier — Chuck, the Choir Boy-Toy, was obviously a goner. For you. I mean, yes, you are easy on the eyes, but not...on the soul. You're a shit ton of ice cubes, Walker. And Chuck, here, he has...a soul. And he was with you: it was obvious from the moment I stepped into the cabin. You had a man in your bed who was supposed to be in the ground. And Chuck was..._making love_…" — Carina paused, her mouth working in distaste — "...to the soulless woman."

_Not soulless, not anymore. Not Nobody, Carina._

"But why come to my room at the hotel that night, Carina?" Chuck broke in. "What was that about?"

"I wanted to know if you were as good as Sarah seemed to think you were." Her eyes lingered on Chuck, his towel.

"That's...ambiguous, Carina. Would you have slept with me if I'd let you in?"

"If you'd let _me _in, _turnabout would've been foreplay_, Chucky…You take anything good anytime you can get it in this business. And it would've been easier with you two pried apart. Estranged. Give you to Graham. Give Sarah to the CIA shrinks. But it didn't work out."

"What do you mean?"

"You turned me down and then let Sarah in. So, I decided to wait until Sarah separated you two. I knew she would. She's fundamentally a loner; that would reassert itself. When the job's got to be done, the Ice Queen goes it along. And she did. The next morning. She had us serve as a back-up but…"

Chuck glanced at Sarah. She met his look. Then, her eyes back to Carina.

Chuck, shaking his head, hand up. "Wait. Why take me up on the roof? Why the whole charade?"

"I talked to Graham on the way to LA, when we stopped."

"I thought it took you a long time to pee," Sarah growled.

Carina ignored the comment. "He anticipated Sarah coming back to her original hotel. He told me to encourage it or not to interfere with it. The plan was to capture her there.

"He thought you, Chuck, would be more...pliable...if you saw her taken, knew that she was dead to you. Gone. Or if you saw her escape and abandon you. But that...wasn't how it went.

"She…" — a hard glance at Sarah — "...not only got away, she _came back_ for you. You must be good, Chuckie, damn good...The Ice Queen I knew would never let her crotch override her spy instincts. _Ow!_"

Carina bent over, hands to her head. Turned.

Ellie had hit her on the back of the head with her fist. "You mercenary bitch! That's for...well...Chuck, and Sarah, and all that shit you just confessed. And for jabbing that gun in my ribs…"

Carina straightened, rubbing her head. "Shit, I had to get Sarah to listen. — Are all you...Bartowskis...so damn hard to deal with?"

"Ellie _Woodcomb_," Ellie hissed through her teeth.

Sarah could not suppress a laugh. "You have no idea, Carina. Is your usual kit in your car?"

Carina nodded, one hand still on her head. "Yeah, the trunk. Grey KIA sedan." She reached slowly into her pocket, keys out.

A look at Ellie. "Ellie, take the keys. There should be a leather bag in the trunk of Carina's car. Just press the 'Unlock' button." Back to Carina. "Handcuffs, I assume."

Carina stopped rubbing her head, her smirk revisiting her face, renewed smirking conviction. "Always, business or pleasure. — Really, Sarah, girl, cuffs? You don't trust me?"

Ignored the question. "Get Morgan and Devon. Bring the whole bag, Ellie. You can cuff Carina, as _tight_ as you like."

Ellie left. Expectant grin on her face.

Carina plopped onto the bed. "So...looks like the three of us are going to bed together after all." She glanced at the bed. Bumby. Shook her head at Sarah and Chuck. "Make that the four of us. _Rub-a-dub-dub_. A Teddy Bear will be a first for me. Furry. Not many firsts left for me...Would that be yiffing? Quasi-yiffing? I have to say, he looks a little... flaccid_._"

Sarah kept the gun trained on Carina. Rescued Bumby. "Keep your filthy paws off him — and Chuck."

* * *

A/N: Ah, Carina. Thoughts? Love to hear from you.


	25. Diamondize

A/N: More story. Our central character comes more into focus as a result of recent events.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Twenty-Five: Diamondize

* * *

Sarah. Gun in one hand, steady on Carina, Bumby cradled in the other arm, gentle.

Chuck. Crossed to Sarah. Carina watched. Chuck's towel.

"Sarah, how do we know she didn't bring...back-up, or give us away? Should we leave?"

"No, I don't think so." Waggled gun at Carina. "Empty your pockets."

Carina stood. "You could have Chuck rifle through them…I could hold his towel, just to keep my hands occupied."

"Carina…," low growl, "...now."

Carina emptied her pockets. Slow, bad hand sore, almost useless. Tossed items on the bed. Chuck picked them up, brought them to Sarah. A phone, off. An ID and credit card, alias. A thick fold of cash.

"Really," Carina said sweetly, "I'd be happy to submit to a strip search."

Ellie entered. Devon and Morgan. Black leather bag in one of Ellie's hands, Carina's keys in the other. Devon and Morgan, gawkers, unprepared for the scene. Gun, towel, teddy bear.

"Cuff her to the headboard, Ellie." Ellie opened the bag and took out the cuffs. Carina gave Ellie her left hand and Ellie attached the cuffs to it and the headboard.

"This all seems familiar," Carina noted with a laugh. "Ouch. Ouch." No laugh, glared at Ellie.

"So, Devon, Morgan, this is Carina Miller. My...We used to work together. She's DEA."

Awkward, half-hearted exchange of greetings, the men, the cuffed woman.

Morgan, after a long stare. "Is she...on our side?"

Sarah, eyes on Carina. "She's on her side, if her side overlaps with ours, then, yes, if not, then no."

"Sarah," Carina mock-pouted, "I'm hurt." Smirk.

Handed Bumby to Chuck — Morgan and Devon staring at the teddy bear — and Sarah stepped to the open bag. Rummaged. Found what she wanted. A hand-held tranquilizer. Took it out.

Carina's eyes grew wide, divesting her smirk of its potency..

"No, Sarah, C'mon. _No_. You know how much I hate that stuff. The headache it gives me."

Without speaking, Sarah tore open the packaging, jabbed the small dart into Carina's shoulder. "All's fair in love and...friendship."

"Shit, Sarah, the hits just...keep…" Carina's eyes glassed over, head lolled. Chin sank to chest. Unconscious.

Sarah turned. Three sets of wide eyes, three open mouths. Not Ellie's.

Self-conscious. "We need to talk without her hearing, and need to sleep — and without her NC-17 commentary."

Four heads nodded.

Chuck. "Can we trust her?" Asked as he tightened his towel. Sarah lifted her eyes from his lower abdomen.

"Probably. I know it doesn't look like it, but I suspect this has been Carina's way of showing contrition. She gave up Graham's address in LA; I'm sure it was right. I...went...by there." Glance at Chuck. "Once she knew we were here, she could have just made a phone call and we'd be buried under agents. Don't think she gave us up. She's here on her own. But she is always playing angles, so…"

"So...do we let her in on what we are doing?" Chuck, again. "If we don't, what do we do with her?"

"There're enough tranqs in the bag to keep her on ice for a couple of days. Probably enough time. We could leave her here, put up a _Do Not Disturb_ sign…"

"But she's good, good at her job, right?" Ellie asked, looking at Carina. Distaste and estimation.

"Yes, she is. Even left-handed, she's a good spy. Despite her recent performance."

Chuck, holding Bumby, hand on Sarah's shoulder. "So we might need her. It's your call, Sarah."

"We tell her what she needs to know in the morning and see what she wants to do. — Let's all get some sleep."

As Ellie passed, she stopped. "So, she's your...friend?"

"Friendships in...my world...are different. Shifty. Sandy. Nothing's...solid."

Ellie glanced at toweled Chuck and the teddy bear, back to Sarah. "I'm sorry, Sarah."

She lead Devon and Morgan out. Morgan asked Devon as the door closed. "So, are all female spies...like..._beautiful_?..."

ooOoo

Sarah. In the bed. Chuck beside her, asleep. Carina on the foor, opposite side. Cuffed and snoring, drugged slumber.

_Not the night I hoped for. _

Chuck held her hand before he drifted off. But no more intimate contact. Starved for his body against hers, starving. Desperate to show him how she felt, how precious he was to her, despite the past. Guns and bullets.

But no. Carina. Snoring. Chuck asleep. Sarah awake. Again. Retrieved Bumby from under the covers.

Made herself close her eyes, drifted...

...memory, not sleep. Gauzy, first, then technicolor.

* * *

_Sixteen. High school. _

_In one town long enough for some the new of her perennial 'new girl' status to wear off. A couple of girls, smart and funny, who were becoming friends. A boy, sweet and shy, who might become a boyfriend. _

_Sixteenth birthday. New dress, red, a present from her dad. Dressed. Going to a movie with the girls, the boy supposed to be there. Breathless. _Normal_. A real girl, a birthday of note, fledgling girlfriends, a maybe-boyfriend. _

_Forget her real unreal life of conning. For a few hours, at least._

_About to go out. Her Dad came home. She went to show him the dress. Knew the look in his eyes. Hunted. "Some folks from the last town found me here. We've got to go. Gather your things. Not much time."_

_In her room, dress off, folded, never to be worn. Into a cardboard box. Bumby on an otherwise bare shelf in her bare room. Hugged him, put him in the worn box with the dress, other little items. Closed it. _

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child...but I put away childish things.

_Bumby boxed. Buried. So long ago. No new friends, no sweet shy boy. No childhood comforts. _

Grow up, Sarah!

_New town, new con. Old life. Same old life. Always the same, always the same goddamn sameness._

* * *

_First mission with Carina. Finished. Drinks at a club. Friends, maybe._

_Carina leaned to Sarah's ear, too loud for normal talk. "So what do you do to unwind after missions?"_

_Shrug. Leaned to Carina. "Prepare for the next mission."_

_Carina gave her a shocked look. "A joke?"_

"_No, that's the truth."_

_Carina squinted as if Sarah had spoken in a foreign language. "Really?"_

"_Yes."_

"_What exactly do you do for the CIA, for Graham, normally, when you aren't on loan, like our mission?"_

"_This and that."_

"_No, Sarah, really."_

_Carina. Friend, maybe. Forced out the words. "I work pretty exclusively on termination missions."_

_Carina leaned back immediately. "No!?" Couldn't hear the word but read her lips._

"_Yes." A shout but lost in the din._

_A moment of silence in the deafening music. Carina's eyes, widened, returned to normal and wandered to the dance floor._

_Leaned in. _"_Those two guys there, the blonde and the dark-haired one. They've been staring at us for a while. I think you need to do what I do after missions, bed a stranger, hard, repeatedly. Clear your head. The dark-haired one seems to like you. What do you say to some _missionary — _or whatever does it for you — after the mission?"_

_Sarah leaned back immediately. Involuntary shudder. "No, absolutely not." _

_No body against hers. No body. Onset of _Rigor mortis. _Corpse, a body. Her body. Lifeless and deathless. Nothing. Zero. _

_Empty. _

_This body of death._

_No. _

_Carina squinted again, leaned. "Really? But, bed, _sometimes_, right?" _

Long ago. Gave it up. Swore it off. No more.

_No answer. Sarah gathered her things, turned her glass up, emptied it. _

_Empty._

_Have to be empty. Stay empty. Can only run on empty. Don't think outside the mission. Don't feel, period. Keep my distance — from everyone, from me._

"_Got to go. See you when I see you, Carina."_

"_Sarah?"_

_No answer. Sarah left, walked away._

"_Sarah?"_

_Gone._

* * *

_Hospital. Woozy. Druggy. Gut aching. Side on fire. _

_Graham by her bed. Standing, staring, impassive. Took her to be still asleep. His look at her wholly objective, like he was assessing a car, broken-down, side of the road. Lumberjack facing a dulled axe. _

_Doctor entered. Graham: "So, how long, how long until she's ready to be back in the field?"_

"_Weeks, maybe a couple of months. But the gunshot's not the only problem."_

"_What do you mean?"_

_Clinical tone, chart in hand, lifting papers. "We had a hard time getting her under, keeping her under during the operation. Dreams or memories or dark fantasies. Violent. Broke a nurse's hand. Screams. Words in many languages. Disjoined, fragmented. Like the devil speaking in tongues. The shattered pieces of a nightmare... _

"_She's been under pressure that would diamondize coal, sir. For years. She can't go on like this. A wholly abnormal life for a human being. And the injury, the trauma, the blood loss, they may make it worse, have serious after-shocks. Decommission her. Put her behind a desk." His voice dropped, conspiratorial. "Finish her. Like this, she'll snap, irrevocably, in another year or two. And that could be a nightmare for you."_

_Doctor exited. _

_Graham walked around the bed. Thinking. Pursed his lips. "A year or two. We can do a lot for the Greater Good over another year or two, eh, Sarah? After all," — pause, exhale — "all salt eventually loses its savor..."_

And then, good for nothing. Cast out. Trodden underfoot.

_Drugged. Woozy. Asleep again._

* * *

Sarah opened her eyes.

She had not recalled her Unsweet Sixteen in years. Or that first after-mission with Carina.

Buried them.

She had never recalled the hospital scene before. Buried itself.

Now, she knew it had been lodged in her mind like Morgan's breakfast toast in his throat.

Burnt. Choking her.

Finally regurgitated, soaked in bile.

Blinked at the ceiling, warm tears spilled from the corners of her eyes cold when they pooled in her ears. Bumby in one arm, she rolled to Chuck and put her other arm around him.

_Normal. Normally. Abnormal._

_Not Norman Rockwell, but normal. Good, wholesome._

Carina snored softly. Chuck's chest rose, fell.

_Not normal. _

Sarah finally slept.

* * *

A/N: Tune in next time as Sarah leads the group underground, Chapter Twenty-Six: "In the Dust". (Some of you will have recognized it already, given the title of the third arc, but Sandburg's poem "Cool Tombs" has exerted considerable influence on this tale.)

Thoughts?

This may be the last chapter for a while, maybe a long while. Enthusiasm flagging.


	26. In the Dust

A/N: A good night's sleep got me enthused and rolling again. Beginning-of-the-semester exhaustion, I suppose. Ready to press on to the end.

Ascent and descent.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Twenty-Six: In the Dust

* * *

Sarah woke.

Mouthful of the bitter-tasting past, vegemite pasty. Dreams of it visited after her ledge-of-sleep memories of it, bidden by recollection across the fixed gulf between consciousness and unconsciousness.

Her father. The few good times, the many bad. Trailing guilt. Her only photograph of her mother eventually lost in a mad dash from town to town. Face nearly forgotten but Sarah's life a daily reminder of her mother's death.

Bottomless self-consciousness of the eternally new girl among cruel kids, teenagers. Lies and shame.

Pressures of the Farm, her relentless drive to mastery, a redress of her helplessness, her lack of self-determination. A mask for the past. Escape into omnicompetence.

Her too-late full understanding of her competence, of what she had mastered, arrived only after the bullet that killed her first target, one second and one eternity too late. Then, a helix down, down, twisting, turning, running non-stop, chasing, chased, becoming Graham's killer, a better-than-Osgood. _Ice Queen_.

Detachment from herself, her deeds farmed out to cover-identities, her own but not her own, done by her shadow.

Increasing isolation. Fever. Frenzy. Always frenzy.

Then: gunshot. Target made her a target. Bleeding out. Detachment impossible. Existential illusion. Blood on her pants, the ground. Wanted to live, to be alive. No exit. No direction of escape. Tried to regroup, recoup, accept. Put the assassin back together.

Until a smile in a rifle scope. Her patchwork exoskeleton shattered. Flesh, nerves exposed.

_Disponibilité. _Touchable, touched. Her heart.

Carina's phrase, presumably a transmission of Graham's: Graham wanted Sarah _to come to herself_. Knew the phrase. Knew it. _The Parable of the Prodigal Son. _"He came to himself." Her coming to herself not momentary, like his, over pig slop, but gradual, over the days since she shot Chuck, over his spilled blood.

"Sarah?" Carina's voice, uncharacteristic whisper. Vulnerable. "Can I have some aspirin? There're some in my bag. My head is pounding."

Sarah looked the opposite way. Chuck was still asleep, feet entangled with hers. Warm.

Faced Carina. Carina's haggard face. Pain in her eyes, puffy and dull. Her bad hand held against her.

"Okay." Sarah arose carefully, leaving Chuck asleep. Bag, aspirin. Bathroom, Dixie cup of water. Back. Carina, pills in her mouth, gulped the water. Rubbed one temple, sighed.

Sarah sat on the floor. Eye-level.

"I'm going to tell you some things. Not everything. Knowing even what I tell you could endanger you. If you want to just go, go. I'll uncuff you and give you your keys and trust you not to turn us in. God knows why. But we...have a history together, and...the state of our...friendship...is certainly not all your fault. I've never let you know me, or not much...So, do you want me to tell you?"

Carina stared at the floor for a few seconds. "Go ahead. Tell me. I'm not exactly Houghton or Graham's favorite at the moment. And I take it this has something to do with Graham. You have something on him…" Eyes up, narrowed.

Nod.

Sarah told Carina the basics. No codewords, no names, no revelations about Chuck's parents. A file, an off-the-books operation. Violent ending. Cover-up. Sealed labs.

"So, this is a grave-robbing expedition? Like _Indiana Jones_?"

Shrug, ignorant. "I guess."

Carina turned, lifted herself by pulling on the cuffs. Looked at Chuck, then back to Sarah. "You're determined to save him? No matter what?"

Nod. "No matter what."

"Long way from our first non-cover night out when I tried to get you to...dance...with that guy."

"Dance, right. A long way."

"Why him? Why now? I mean, he's yummy: I'd do him, as many times as he could do me, don't get me wrong. But, really, why?"

Exhale. Inhale. "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

Carina's nose crinkled. "Hell, no. Don't believe in _love_, Sarah, so of course, I don't believe in love at first sight. Spies don't…"

"Spare me, Carina." Pause.

"I did, and not just at first sight, but through a sight."

Disbelieving stare. "C'mon, Sarah. That's movie crap. Not real life."

"What do either of us know about real life, Carina?"

Carina started an answer. Stopped. Pause. Shrug. "Point taken. But, still, what's the _point_? Chucky gets saved and returns to the choir. You think they'll ask you to join, sing soprano?"

A hint of a sneer on Carina's face aimed — not at Sarah — at the choir Carina imagined. Sarah knew the sneer covered fear.

Sarah felt it too, the fear. _Second T-800, _Judgment Day, _no place in John or Sarah Connor's world, melted down, molten steel._

"I don't know, Carina." A long glance at Chuck, so long. "I don't know if there's any place for me in his normal world. Likely...not. But I am done with my abnormal one, or will be when this finishes, one way or the other."

Carina shook her head. "You're just...setting yourself up for heartbreak. Why let yourself feel anything at all? Why not be the unknown Sarah I've always known, the known unknown Sarah?"

Sarah shook her head at the wordplay, accurate enough. "Because that is just...dying in slow motion. Better to ache than be dead."

Carina gave Sarah an odd look. Heavy. Suffused by some memory momentarily, then gone. "Be careful what you wish for, Sarah. — Uncuff me. I have to pee. May I take a shower?"

"Okay, but last night is the last time I pull a punch with you, Carina. One more thing, and I will do...what I have to do. You've made it clear you are your own priority. He's mine."

ooOoo

Heard Carina enter the shower. Sarah got back in bed. Secured Bumby and stretched out against Chuck.

Chuck awoke. Glanced at her. Heard the shower. "Carina?"

"Yes."

"Does she take as long to shower as to pee?"

"Longer, so much longer."

"Good, 'cause I have something I'm hoping you can...help me with."

He took her hand and guided it to him, fully ready. _Oh, God, yes._

"This time," Chuck added, playful grin, "I think I can be on top — if the lady doesn't mind."

The lady didn't mind. Not at all.

At the crucial moment, lips to Chuck's ear, "I love you…" Joy in the saying outstripping the fear of the saying.

His answer, breathed out warm against her neck, sudden spreading warmth inside her. "I love you…"

Breath caught_. Release. _

ooOoo

They had trudged through the woods, along a now-overgrown dirt road.

The road to _Omaha. _

Chuck, map in hand, guiding, absorbed. Sarah beside him, gun in hand, alert. Backpack on.

Ellie, Devon, Morgan next. Ellie had two large flashlights. Devon carried a shovel. Morgan a pick.

Carina at the rear. Her own backpack. Gun in her left hand. Ellie glanced back often. Sarah too. Carina pretended not to notice. No talk.

No sign of vehicles or other pedestrians. The West Virginia woods silent except for occasional bird-calls. Damp still from the previous day of rain.

The road, uphill. And then, a clearing, a flat place.

Concrete, jutting up from the ground, tall grass growing around it. "Stay back, Chuck."

Sarah first. To the horizontal rectangle of concrete. Solid, although the edges were of older concrete. The concrete inside the rectangle was less finished, uneven. Poured and abandoned.

"Everyone rest for a minute. I'll check the perimeter. Carina?"

Carina nodded — she would watch over the others. _No choice. _Sarah gave her a hard look. _I will do what I have to do, remember. _Carina nodded again. _She remembers._

Quick perimeter sweep. No signs of anything but wildlife and rain.

Back. No one talking. Chuck relieved when Sarah came out of the trees.

"Okay, Devon, Morgan, get to work. We need to get the concrete off the top of the door. I have explosives that should finish the job, but I want to use them only once. Too much noise as it is, but there's no key under the mat."

Devon took the pick, giving Morgan the shovel. The first blow, sparks, small crack. Devon gave Sarah a tight smile. Another blow.

Chuck looked at the pick, the shovel, Sarah. She frowned sadly at him. He gave her a shrug, grin.

Noticed Ellie notice the exchange.

ooOoo

Devon's shirt was soaked through. Morgan dumped a shovel of concrete on the growing pile. The door, metal, was now almost completely visible, like a bit of a submarine submerged in earth, not ocean.

"That's good, Devon."

"Awesome," he panted, "don't have much left." Sarah saw Carina shoot Ellie a smirk. Ellie ignored it.

Sarah unzipped her backpack. Explosive from her storage unit. The long, low wooden box. Put it in place against the door. Waved everyone to a distance. Installed the remote fuse and joined them. Punched the button.

_BOOM!_

Bird-calls, sudden birds in flight. Explosion echoed, filling and emptying the woods, everywhere and nowhere at once.

Smoke cleared. Sarah, gun out, lead them to the door, now the hole, in the ground. Chuck beside her, whispered. "Omaha." Carina stared at Chuck.

ooOoo

All waited. Stillness returned. No sounds of alarm. Of vehicles. Bird-song scattered again.

Sarah attached a small flashlight to her gun. Carina the same. Ellie had one of the large flashlights. Devon took the other. Morgan sat down glumly beside the hole. "Don't wanna be the lookout."

Carina, standing beside him. "Our safety depends on you, Martin."

"Morgan."

"Right. Be alert. Do a good job — and I'll give you a kiss when we get out of there." She waved the small walkie-talkie in her hand.

Brightening, Morgan sat up straight, waved the one in his. "Count on me."

Chuck was staring down in the hole. There were steps visible, leading down into inky darkness. A stale odor, heavy and dry, up and out of the hole, respiration impossibly slow, one slow, long exhale of a years-long breath-holding.

"Mom and Dad worked down there. What the hell _is_ down there?" Ellie asked. Carina turned to Ellie, eyes narrow.

"Not the Hellmouth, I hope." Chuck.

"Huh?" Sarah.

"A TV show, _Buffy_. I feel like we're going down into the Initiative."

Morgan gulped. "Don't say spooky shit like that, Chuck, and then leave me up here...graveside."

"Sorry, Morg."

Devon had given Chuck the big flashlight. Now, Devon held the pick in his right hand, the shovel in his left.

Sarah put her foot on the steps, her gun's light boring into the darkness. Thick dust covered the steps, undisturbed, disturbing. "Let's go down."

* * *

A/N: Five or six chapters and an epilogue to go. Thoughts?


	27. Ashes to Ashes?

A/N: We head into the heart of darkness, er, of the third arc.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Ashes to Ashes?

* * *

Down.

Sarah led them down.

Chuck behind her, Ellie, Devon, Carina last.

The subterranean dark repelled the sunlight. Repellent.

Descending the dusty stairs, Sarah shined her gun light around as she neared the bottom, a long descent. Down. Down into a darkness mobile, swirling and eddying around her, self-propellent ink.

Some antechamber. Floor, walls deep-scarred by a chemical fire, long ago. Odor of it almost gone, a lingering trace, hellish, olfactory remains of a foul visitation.

The others reached bottom.

Lights slicing the near-palpable darkness: flashlights, the other gun light.

No one spoke. Charred remnants of a desk, some piece of furniture. A slagged computer, melted plastic mound. On the ground, ash and bits of paper.

Ellie pointed her flashlight. Chuck bent down and stirred the ash around. The bits of paper. Hands blackened.

Peered at the paper, shook his head. Whispered. "A logbook of some kind. Just the edges of a few pages left. Nothing on them." Stood up.

It was silent there. Down there. Chuck's whisper a shout.

Sarah moved toward a badly scarred door, only exit but the stairs. Neared it, saw that there was a crack. Barely open. Tried to wedge her fingers in, but the crack, too small.

"Devon, bring the pick here, please," her voice echoed in the room: Sarah cringed.

Devon worked the pick into the opening. Jerked on the handle, massive effort. Door moved an inch or two. Metal on metal. _Screech_.

Ellie handed put her flashlight down, beam on Devon. Joined him in the spotlight. Both jerked, another few inches with a screeching accompaniment.

_Screech._

Metallic scream, as if a delayed reaction to chemical burns.

Chuck stepped into the beam. All three jerked at once. _Screech_. Open, enough for a person to pass through, pass over.

Threshold of _Omaha_.

Devon panting, hands on his knees. Ellie rubbing his lower back. Chuck, hand working his wounded shoulder. Sarah reached out and stroked it softly.

His hand on hers for a moment.

"Let's go," Sarah said.

Led them into the next room. Beams of light.

Intakes of breath.

The room was intact. Computer screens mounted on walls. Computers. Desks and chairs. Everything neat. Orderly. Ready.

A console. Chuck walked to it, following Sarah's gun light. She followed. Chuck studied the dials, buttons. Reached out and pushed one button.

A whirring sound. Distant but distinctly audible. A flicker of light, flicker short, flicker long, flicker again.

There was light. Computer screens blinked on, displaying the CIA seal.

Everyone blinked, blinked, eyes slow to adjust. Lights physically painful, minor ice-cream headache. Spots, seeing.

Carina. "What'd you do, Chuck?"

"I turned the place on," he said, shrugged.

Carina laughed, one giggle. "Wow, Sarah, does he do that to your button too?"

Chuck went on, ignored Carina's comment, Sarah's visible blush, Devon's low chuckle.

"That sound. A generator. I turned..it on. It must be down here somewhere, underground. Still functional."

"I don't get it," Ellie, craning her head around.

One door out of the room, open, dark, leading deeper into the facility. "Why is that first room...burnt...toast...and this room pristine?"

Chuck, fiddling with a computer, cautiously. Stopped. Looked at Sarah. "Do you know, Sarah?"

"I'm not sure, but that stuff, the chemical used in the other room, it is supposed to spread, eat away at anything flammable. Burns at tremendous heat. The door kept it from working its way in."

"Why would they have closed the door?" Chuck looked back at the pried-open door.

"The people who burned it wouldn't have closed it. Someone else must have, probably shortly before the fire started."

"But that would mean," Ellie broke in, "that someone was still down here to close the door. The burners must not have known."

"Or cared." Carina.

Chuck glanced around. "I think they would have cared. Not about the person, maybe, but about the possibility that all this was preserved."

He returned to the computer. "But I think these were wiped. Nothing on here but the Company screen-saver and the standard OS. Memory's empty." His fingers blurred, he bent down, worked for a moment. "Yeah, wiped, seriously wiped. Complete. No traces of anything."

"So, there's nothing down here?" Devon looked at Chuck, Sarah.

"Not _right here_. But we need to check the whole place."

Down. Lights flickered, stabilized.

ooOoo

They went down. Down. New stairs leading from the second room. Dullish glow of recessed lights. Flashlights off.

"Didn't expect this place to go so far. How was it made?" Carina, from behind.

"I suspect it was a mining operation initially, shafts. An attempt to get at coal. The CIA converted it into...this." Chuck explained. Did not turn around.

Stairs ended.

Long hallway, dotted with recessed lights in the ceiling. Gloomy. Doors along each side, all open. Heavy. Wire-mesh glass window, small, in each door. Slot in each three-quarters of the way down. The rooms, half-jail cell, half-hospital room. Bed, toilet. Each room empty in turn.

Hallway ended, another door. Shut but unlocked.

As Sarah opened it. Lights flickered, stabilized.

Through the door, a long, rectangular room. The lab.

Door on the far end. One in the opposite wall.

Stood and looked. Like a movie set. Long heavy-duty lab tables, black tops. Test tubes, racks. Arcane devices, machines. Several chairs, padded, with restraints. Evil-looking deviations from barbershop chairs. More computers, CIA seal glowing, staring eyes in the gloomy recessed lighting.

Chuck shook his head as he looked at the nearest chair. "If Floyd the Barber worshipped Satan…"

"What, Chuck?" Sarah put her hand around his.

Shook his head, shuddered. "Nothing. This place grows _creepy_ like a fungus, you know."

Sarah squeezed his hand. "I know."

"I can't imagine Dad and Mom, down here…working here."

"Try not to. You want to check these computers?"

Sigh. "Yes, I suppose." Sarah watched as he went to work. Glanced around. Devon had put the shovel and pick down. He and Ellie, walking together, picking up test tubes, vials. Reading labels. Examing devices, machines. Whispering to each other.

Carina spoke into her walkie-talkie. "Carina to Martin…" Buzz, crackle.

"_Morgan _to Carina…" Buzz. Voice broke by static. "You all okay?"

"So far. Anything going on up there?"

"No. Hard to hear you."

"We've gone down deeper. Much further and these things will quit working. Carina out."

"Martin out. — I mean, _Morgan _out_._"

"Anything, Chuck?" Sarah asked.

"No, these are wiped too."

"Let's go on, then. Ellie, Devon, are you done?"

Ellie stopped whispering. "Yes, for now. I may want to stop here again on the way out, make some notes."

"Okay, we'll check the other door then too, while you do." Sarah walked to the door leading out of the lab. Opened it.

Stairs.

Down.

"Shit." Carina. Flicker, stabilize.

ooOoo

At the bottom, another unlocked door. Through it, another hallway. Shorter. One door, each side, closed. Door at the end of the hallway. Closed.

Sarah opened the first. A spartan dorm room. Bed. Two armchairs. Dresser, drawers open, begging mouths. Desk, chair, computer. Shelf above the desk. Books leaning over on it. Thick, pharmacology books, plus a couple of romance novels. Room empty, otherwise.

Chuck took down each book in turn, opening it, flipping quickly through the pages. Ellie joined in. Nothing. No name in the books, no scraps of paper.

The room was otherwise empty. Lights flickered, stabilized. Crossed the hallway.

Sarah opened the door. A similar room but larger. Larger bed. Two desks, dressers. Pictures on the walls. Look. A second look. Chuck — as a boy. Ellie — as a girl. Younger and older, several pictures. A family photograph, all four. Sarah approached it, rapt, _Frost's family, _heard Chuck and Ellie gasp behind her.

Stephen and Mary's room.

"Mom?" Ellie.

"Dad?" Chuck.

Silence, silence, recessed lights flickered, smiling photographs macabre in the flicker, stabilized, — but no answer.

* * *

A/N: Tune in next time for Chapter Twenty-Eight, "Crematory". — Flicker, flicker.

Thoughts?


	28. Crematory

A/N: More underground.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Crematory

* * *

Closer.

Moved closer to the family photo. Sarah.

Rapt.

Ellie and Chuck, both young, Mary, _Frost_, and Stephen, young parents. Stared at Chuck, recognizing the man in the boy, vice-versa.

But: stared at Mary, back to Mary. Fixated. _Frost. _Assassin, woman, wife, mother.

Ellie looked like her. Chuck too.

But: assassin, woman, wife, mother, _Frost_...

_Ice Queen_, assassin, woman...

Chuck and Ellie and Devon and Carina searching the desks, the dressers, the bed. No bookshelf.

Nothing found.

Sarah fixed in place, still.

Ellie's hand on her shoulder. "Have you not seen Mom before?"

"No, never. No photos. Nothing. Just talk. Whispers. Beautiful. Normal. She looks normal."

Ellie leaned toward the photograph, studied it. "She was. And she wasn't. There was something about her. Not a hardness, not a coldness, they were there, available, but never toward us. It was something else, a depth, a feeling of...depths.

"Her...waters...ran deep. And strong — undercurrents under undercurrents. She loved us, I've never doubted that, not really, not even at the times, after they left, when anger and despair made me hate her. She didn't love superficially. Lightly. She was all-in." Ellie paused, her fingers glancing lovingly against the glass as if touching her mother in touching the photograph.

"She _loved _my dad. Devotedly. I...I have a better sense of that, now: she _needed_ him.

"Not because she was a woman and he was a man, and a woman needs a man to _complete _her…" Ellie made a disgusted face, waving that nonsense away with her hand, "...but because she was _the woman she was_, that particular woman, that particular person, with the...history she had.

"And because _he was the man he was_, that particular man, that particular person, because _he loved her the way he did_. He needed her too, needed her love and needed to love her. He did."

Ellie frowned and reached up and carefully took the photograph down. Held it in front of her, 90-degree angle.

"I don't know how to explain it. I don't know if they could. But it was real. Other people could see it, feel it between them. A mystery." Another shrug as she turned from the wall. Ellie, tilted head, faced Sarah, photograph in hand. Thoughtful. Studied the photograph again.

The lights flickered. Flickered. Then stabilized.

Blinking, shaking her head, reverie finished, Ellie waved the photograph at Sarah, a request, and Sarah turned, understanding. Ellie slid the photograph into Sarah's backpack, the empty laptop pocket.

Looked at the others, Sarah did, and Ellie zipped her up. "Find anything?"

"No," Carina answered. "Just the photographs. I guess they were expected to burn, — the photographs, I mean." Carina frowned. At herself. Her phrasing. Immediate covering smirk.

Sarah took Chuck's hand. Quick squeeze, quick squeeze back. Like pinching herself: _real, he's real._ "Alright. Let's check the door at the end of the hall, then we need to go back up. We can stop in the lab and check that door we passed while Ellie takes her notes."

Door — end of the hallway — showers, bathroom. Empty. Slow, echoing drip of water, rusty showerhead, moldy stain on the tile where it dripped, years of dripping.

Return.

Climbed below flickering lights

Up.

ooOoo

Back to the lab.

Carina fished a small notebook out of her backpack's side pocket and gave it to Ellie. Small, miniature-golf score-card pencil. Ellie with Devon, noting names on vials, test tubes. Making note of machines and devices. More whispering, writing.

"Stay with them, Carina. Watch. Chuck and I will check the side door."

Unlocked too.

Short hallway ending in stairs climbing. Up. Door to the left. It too unlocked. Another short hallway, then a large table, larger room. Plates and glasses and silverware on the table. All clean. Enough seating for eight. Shelves on the walls. Extra plates, glasses, cups. Containers of silverware. Condiments.

As if dinner were about to be served, cooking done.

Closer. Dust on the table's plates. The table. The shelved extras. A TV hanging on the wall. Speakers in the corners. Dark screen, silent speakers.

Door out of the dining room. Through it, the kitchen. More dripping water, faucet. Canned goods. Large, commercial refrigerator. Empty. Commercial dishwasher, full, clean dishes. Pots, pans, ladles. Gadgets.

Flicker.

Sarah took the moment. Pulled Chuck to her. "Are you okay, Chuck? The photographs?"

He nodded, tight smile. "Yes, I mean, it's a lot, but I'll sort it when we're above ground. I just hoped we would find something. Don't want to be here on a wasted errand. It's like a furnished tomb."

Sarah gave him a quick kiss. "I know. I don't want to be here either." The dark, the flickering lights. Too much a reminder of her CIA life, the assassin. The assassin's sun a flickering light, darkness her natural environment. Hand on Chuck's cheek, cupped his jaw. "I love you, Chuck. You believe that, right? That I do, that I...can...love you."

He kissed her back. "Yes, Sarah, I do. And, I do you too. You believe that?"

Sarah took a second. "I do. You weren't alone in that bed. C'mon, let's climb those stairs."

To the stairs. Ellie, Devon, Carina out of the lab, standing in the hallway, foot of the stairs. Ellie scribbling in the notebook.

Carina trying to get Morgan to answer the walkie-talkie. No answer. Buzz and static. Shook it in frustration. Buzz. Static.

"Morgan? Morgan? Shit. Damn things. What was in there?" Pointed to the door with her shoulder.

"Dining room. Kitchen. Nothing of interest." Chuck shrugged his answer.

"Let's go up." Sarah started up the stairs.

"Sarah?" Ellie's voice rose, squeaked a little. Everyone stopped.

"What?"

"On the floor. Blood, I think. Old but drops of blood." Brown spots on the rough concrete. Carina knelt, scratched a spot. Sniffed it. "Not sure, but I think she's right."

Grip tightened on the gun. Looked at the floor.

To the top. A heavy door, metal. Once more, open.

Chuck held it open. Everyone entered.

It was a large room with a number of stretchers in it, piled off to one side. In the wall opposite was a large, circular metal door. Around it gauges and handles. Prominent temperature gauge.

Below the door was a metal table on wheels.

Ellie spoke. "Oh, no."

"Ellie?"

"Sarah, that's a crematory. Crematorium, you know…" As if possessed, Ellie walked to the door and pulled the metal handle. It swung back with a long, low squeak. Inside, dark, a musty, unidentifiable odor. Not pleasant. Faint reminder, burned hair.

Ellie turned on her flashlight. The light shone in. A metal mesh platform a few inches above the solid metal bottom. Ash and debris thick beneath the mesh, like the build-up in the bottom of a grill, extinguished coals.

Devon joined Ellie. "Yeah, El, you're right." He reached inside, arm between the mesh platform and the floor. Came out with a fistful of dust, ash.

Opened his hand. "Not awesome. Not, not awesome."

"What is it, Devon?"

"Bone, human bone, I'm almost sure. They were burning folks here, bodies here." Flicker.

Ellie stepped closer. "Hey, what's that?" She shined the light in again but angled it to the far end of the mesh platform.

Devon looked. "Books?"

He leaned inside, pulled himself up, stretched. A moment later, out, his shirt ashy. In his hands were two notebooks and a small manilla envelope. The notebooks were black, each held closed with an elastic band. Handed the books to Ellie after she put her flashlight down.

Looked at the envelope.

Devon read. "CIA Mission Log: Mary Bartowski." Glanced up at Sarah. "What is this?"

"Sometimes agents keep a log. Some do it by video instead of writing. I'm guessing it's video." Devon handed it to Sarah.

Ellie spoke, notebooks open, one on top of another. Turning pages. "These notebooks. One is Dad's. The other belonged to the woman, that woman, the one who joined Omaha. Notes on the drugs…" Ellie flipped pages. "The ones we saw…" She looked up at Devon. "A soup of scopolamine, triple Amytal, other things. Molding and remolding the _lobus occipitalis_. Injections at the base of the skull."

She shut the notebook. Opened the other. More flipping. Pages. "She showed up, the woman...Dad and Mom resisted...Forced, somehow...Fights, arguments...Jesus, what a mess. Patients, 'volunteers', dying, going crazy...A guard..._a guard?_...killed by a patient. Dead patients cremated here, the guard too…"

She shut the book and her eyes, tears trailing. "Mom. Dad. What did you_ do_?"

Ellie fell against Devon. Chuck took the notebooks, turned Carina around, and put them in her backpack. "We found what we came for, although maybe we'll wish we hadn't."

"Nothing else in there, Devon?"

Shook his head. "Nothing else. Should we take some of...the ash?"

Sarah took the disc out of the envelope. Handed the envelope to Devon, slipped the disc in the side pocket her backpack.

Devon reached in the crematory and scooped ash into the envelope, then closed it, making a face.

"Got it."

"Why are these things here? The notebooks, the log? _In the crematory_?" Carina.

Chuck answered. "Maybe because they wouldn't burn? Even if the rest of the place did, that…" he nodded toward the crematory, '..._that_ is designed to withstand massive heat, contain massive heat."

The lights flickered. Went out.

Total darkness. Total. All around them, alive, malignant. Swallowed them.

Gasps. Flashlights, gun lights, on. "Maybe they'll come back on. But let's not wait. Follow me."

Sarah led them.

Up.

ooOoo

Up.

Top of the stairs.

Lights flickered on. Sudden. In the light, there, five armed men. Guns out, spread around the room. Two by the opposite door stepped aside.

Deep voice from the antechamber, approaching. "Agent Walker, you have led me on quite a chase. But it is about to end. You and Agent Miller. Put your guns down."

Langston Graham.

Tall. Grey suit. Not-nice smile, victor's smile, rubbing his hands together.

* * *

A/N: Tune in next time for Chapter Twenty-Nine, "Facts of Hard Record". Heading toward the end of our little experiment. Thoughts?


	29. Facts of Hard Record

A/N: Story's written. Just posting ahead now.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Facts of Hard Record

* * *

Graham.

ooOoo

Gun deposited on the floor, gun light still shining. Carina's down too, shining.

Zero. Nothing, less than zero. Nothing, minus. Negative numbers.

Sarah and Chuck. Two. Dead flies.

Sarah. One. Dead moth.

The assassin. Zero. _Ice Queen._

The assassin felt her heart plummet, over a ledge. Tumble into the abyss.

ooOoo

Graham.

He waved. The men moved Chuck, Ellie, Carina across the room, right beside Graham. Left the assassin alone.

So alone.

The distance from her to Chuck long, so long. Between them, in the empty space, a cylinder on the floor. An incendiary, an explosive, detonator in place. And Graham.

So she would lose, lose him. Chuck. _Her Chuck_. A few days with a good man.

Done.

Over.

Could not let Graham have him. Chuck looked at her, the assassin. The love, a light in his eyes, bright, stable, no flicker. Shining despite his fear.

Steadied Sarah — a breath, a deep breath. Breathed. Sarah did.

Vertigo — the panic — passed. Plummet stopped. Feet again solid on the below-ground ground.

ooOoo

"Where's Morgan?" Chuck, demanding. Graham shrugged, amused. "Up top. Bleeding, restrained. Alive, like you, _for now_." Graham rotated, faced Sarah.

Sarah faced Graham. Sarah did. Graham looked at her, cocking his head, then shaking it. Slow shake.

"I'm disappointed," Graham said, his soft tone threatening and avuncular simultaneously. "All the work that went into _making_ you, Agent Walker. The Farm, the training, the years. All the success we have had. _Making the world safe for Democracy._ _Securing the Greater Good._" He swung his arms, parade posture.

"And you toss it all away…" Graham made a throwing-away gesture, glanced at Chuck, then Carina, "...for _him_. For a _Bartowski_." He turned his hands palm-upward, supplicant to the Inscrutable Fates. "I suppose there is a fitting irony in it, and perhaps I will chuckle about it in a few weeks or months. But it is too soon, now."

Graham sighed, his tone then business-like but all-the-more threatening. "Oh, well. I should have killed these two long ago, as I threatened to do." He gave Chuck and Ellie a dismissive frown

"You see, that's how I forced Stephen back into _Omaha. _Mary too. It had to be done. _Omaha _was potentially too important. To the country. _To me_. Once I got them here, they were, effectively, my prisoners. Guards and the threat to you two were enough to keep them down here, keep them working."

A handkerchief from an interior pocket of his blazer. Wiped his hands slowly, ceremoniously. Pontius Pilate in Giorgio Armani.

Shook his head at Chuck. Kept talking, wiping.

"But your father was too...kind-hearted. Wouldn't _push._ And Frost, your mother, made him stronger. I thought about just killing her, but I knew that would cost me him. He'd never have made it through, never have been able to keep working.

"Having Frost down here was like having a pissed wasp trapped under a glass, but I kept making sure she knew how close my people were to you two. Students with you. Co-workers with you. Nearby neighbors. Constant access. She kept her stinger to herself."

Glanced at Sarah. Back to Chuck. "So my buddy, Houghton," a third glance, at Carina, "Agent Miller's boss, gifted me a DEA scientist, a pharmacology expert. He was sleeping with her, but she meant nothing to him, of course. Luckily, he meant something to her.

"He talked her into joining the project, roused her to it. You see, Stephen had once admitted to me that drugs might speed the downloading, prolong its retention, but he refused to do it. He would continue the AI work but not start down that new path. Kept muttering about _MKUltra_.

"Jesus! I gave him no choice. I brought her in, Houghton's mistress. Trina Jerrod. I kept her name out of it all as a favor to Houghton. At first, she was gung-ho..." Another sneer, headshake. "..._Love_. — She took care of the pharmacology, Stephen of the AI, and the results were promising. Until they weren't. The patients who retained the programming lost their minds, died or became...monsters. A guard was killed. The incinerator became a _de facto _crematorium.

At that point, shutting _Omaha _down was not going to be enough. It had become a debacle. A career-killer. So, I ended it. Locked the place down. Eliminated the remaining patients, the guards. Wiped it away.

"But an unpredictable thing happened. Jerrod had a crisis of conscience, I suppose. Regret. She dosed herself and downloaded the programming. The enhancements allowed her to defeat the guards, with Frost's help, get your parents out. Evade elimination.

"She was stable for a while. Got them all to Russia somehow. They took...certain notebooks with them or claimed they did, documents recording what had happened here, and your parents made it clear that if anything happened to you or your sister, the notebooks would go public. _Stalemate_.

"Or it was until Trina Jerrod started to destabilize. She was calling herself Tina Justice. She had put that name among the Omaha patient names when she began experimenting on herself. Strange, like carving initials in a tree. Of course, maybe she was unstable from the beginning." Another business-like shrug. Bemused by incompetence.

"She slipped up in Moscow, left a trail, and, using it, I found Stephen and Mary. My then-terminator, Agent Walker's forerunner, Agent Osgood, eliminated them both."

Graham folded his handkerchief, returned it to his pocket.

"It was painless, quick. Osgood, like our Agent Walker here, was an inspired artist of death, able to deliver it in countless ways, quick or slow, painless or painful. So hard to find artistry like that. Our Sarah here was like Picasso, except she had a red period, a long one, not a blue one."

Graham turned to Sarah, a rueful smile, kept talking to Chuck. "In fact, you, Chuck, were to have been Agent Walker's _fiftieth_ kill, the golden anniversary, so to speak, of my golden girl."

Saw Chuck swallow hard. Ellie's brow contracted. Shame covered Sarah. _Chuck!_

Graham went on. "But you weren't, you aren't, my golden girl anymore, are you, Agent Walker? Not all that glitters remains gold."

He turned to Chuck again. "You see, she's...changed. It started before she got shot outside of Porto Alegre. My Ice Queen would never have made that mistake, allowed her target to get a shot off. That slip was the first sign. But then, after she…" Graham turned to Sarah again, "after _you_ came to, you were different. Pensive. Almost dreamy. Lost in thought.

"I have to say, rumination does not become you, Agent Walker, and it proved to be...counterproductive. You were sluggish, distracted. After a while, you seemed to be returning to your old self, but the...the drive...the speed...the old _fever._..did not seem to be there.

"And so I sent you to finish Chuck, but I am sure Agent Miller's supplied those details. — By the way, Chuck, it turns out, did me a service in doing me a disservice.

"You see, Osgood could not find those notebooks. We assumed Jerrod — Justice — had them, and of course, you were the Agent of Record for that kill, weren't you, Agent Walker." Graham turned only his head toward Chuck. "How does that grab you, Chuck, your assassin lover stood by and watched the woman who saved your parents die, watched her take a bullet to the head? Your own Agent of Record."

_Stop it, Graham. Stop. I never kept count. Never. Perfect record, but never kept score. I don't want you to be the one who tells Chuck that. Fifty kills. Fifty._

Chuck had paled in the flickering lights.

"But Justice did not have the notebooks either. So, for a long time, I worried that you had them, or your sister, but neither of you ever did anything to suggest that you did. And then you, the Piranha, went after _Omaha_, and I was sure that you did not have the notebooks.

"I now am sure they did not exist or have been lost forever if they did. Of course, I also thought this place had been turned to cinders." He gestured to the incendiary. "I am going to be sure this time. And we will search you after we get out of here. You will give me any copy of the _Omaha _files. I have the drugs necessary to make sure you cooperate.

"But I want to say goodbye to Agent Walker. She will not be accompanying us. I find it fitting that she will die here, be buried here, _cremated_, for her betrayal, — of her country," Graham's eyes narrowed, "of _me._"

Sarah made a glancing eye-contact with Carina as Graham looked toward the incendiary on the floor. Carina and Chuck and Ellie were standing by the door that Devon used the pick to force open. The stairs were not far away, just across the antechamber.

Sarah nodded toward the stairs, the movement of her chin minute.

Carina blinked deliberately. _She knows. She understands. _Carina's mouth turned down, her eyes as soft, sympathetic as Sarah had ever known them to be. _Bye, Carina. Maybe we would have become real friends, not just spy friends._

This was how it was always going to end.

Not Sarah with Chuck. But Sarah saving Chuck.

And that was enough. _Enough is enough; it's not everything. _Sarah's heart was heavy, impossibly heavy, but her head was clear, her thoughts crystalline.

Her gun was on the floor. The gun light shining, the beam of light a yellow parabola on concrete.

She dove for it, her dive supple and perfect. Gun in hand, light and sights up, Graham's face bathed in the beam, trigger squeeze, headshot, but another shot rang out, one of the men, bullet gouged Sarah's lower leg. Jerked in response. Spoiled her aim.

Missed Graham.

Another shot, one of the men. Missed her. Concrete spray. Crawled. Saw Carina shoulder the nearest man out of the way, scoop up her gun, shout, "Run!"Chuck and Ellie and Devon sprinting with her to the stairs.

The lights went out again. Blackness. Carina's gun light bouncing up the stairs.

Sarah leaped to her feet, leg burning.

She ran back to the stairs behind her. The stairs down. Down to the lab. She aimed for the incendiary as she ran, encircling it in light, and she fired.

Turned as she did, heard the explosion, felt the instant magma heat, — blown forward, down the stairs. Rolling, bouncing, concrete biting into her, legs, arms, back, chest. Sound of cracking glass.

Bottom. Hard. Scrambled up, nothing broken but hurting everywhere. Scraped and cut. Looked up. A massive fireball rolling down the steps toward her, as if the sun itself was trying to squeeze into the stairway. To chase her. Burn her.

Burned spy. Burnt offering.

—"_Where is the lamb?" _

—"_My daughter, God himself will provide the sacrifice."_

Felt the earth shake, the ceiling above her begin to fall.

The sky falling. Skynet.

_Judgment Day. The second T-800. Melted. Molten steel. No place in that world. _

Sarah, no place in Chuck's. No place above ground. Judgment Day.

_It will end here, in this hell. Buried. But I have taken Graham and his men with me. _

She ran, the fireball consuming the stairs, the ceiling collapsing around her. The ground shaking.

_I saved Chuck, Ellie, Devon, Morgan, and Carina. _

It was enough. _I fell in love and was loved. _

She would die as Sarah, not as the assassin.

Ran.

_So long, Chuck. — How I love you!_

Enough.

* * *

A/N: Um...right.

I've had lots of music on my mind as I wrote this, lots of poetry (Sandburg's "Cool Tombs") but for the most part, I've kept it all out of view. But here I will bring one song into view, the song of this chapter. From Joy Division's unbearable classic, _Closer, _the song "Passover". Give it a listen.

Thoughts?


	30. Days to Mine and Nights to Shore

A/N: Our final chapter.

* * *

**Burying Dirt**

Chapter Thirty: Days to Mine and Nights to Shore

* * *

Chuck sat on the porch.

The porch of Sarah's cabin.

Alone.

The cabin where he and she first made love. "_We made love." _The thought made his chest feel like it would collapse. Brittle. Empty. They would never make love again.

The woman he loved was dead. Buried in _Omaha. _

Graham was dead too. The man responsible for the death of Chuck's parents — and of the woman he loved. Sarah, the assassin, Chuck's shooter, lover, and savior.

Chuck wanted to dig Graham up and kill him again and again and bury him.

_Bury dirt_. Graham was dirt. A high-rise but low-level bureaucrat with zero sense of the value of any life but his own.

Chuck thought of a line from a Robert Ludlum novel, read long ago, high school: _80% of all intelligence is a chess game played by idiots for the benefit of paranoid morons. _

Bitter, nothing to make it better.

Chuck's hands shook with rage and grief. Impotent against the past, against explosion and flame and rock.

He hated that he had made that grim Hellmouth joke before they went down into _Omaha. _Cursed himself for cursing them all.

He talked too much.

ooOoo

He had finally had time to himself, and he had gotten Carina to tell him how to get to the cabin. He was not sure he remembered. He had other things on his mind. His wound, having slept with Sarah.

He had no idea who owned the cabin now, but it was as the three of them left it when they left with Carina three months ago. Chuck thought he could still smell Sarah on her pillow.

He had dreamt of her as he slept in their bed, alone, last night.

Alone.

Being there made being with Sarah seem so recent, and so long ago. So long. So long, Sarah. _I love you. _So close yet an eternity away.

He had felt alone for three months, although Ellie and Devon and Morgan — and even Carina — had tried to make him feel less alone, to make him feel better.

They were kind and sweet. But it was still so bitter.

ooOoo

The first few weeks had been an unending exercise in numbness.

He and Ellie and Devon had pieced together the story from the notebooks of Jerrod and Chuck's Dad. They had stayed hidden until it was done, afraid that Houghton would attempt to do what Graham had failed to do. Carina stayed with them to watch over them and to help.

They had run from West Virginia, all of them together, shaken and broken. Sarah had died below ground, with Graham and his men. She saved them by sacrificing herself.

Saved him. Saved Chuck. The woman who shot him had saved him again and again, the last time by paying the highest possible price.

In a small town in rural Ohio, Carina had somehow found an empty farmhouse, owners away, and they pieced _Omaha _together there from the notebooks and from Piranha's thumb drive. Finished, they copied all the information, and sent copies to lawyers in various places around the country, with specific instructions for the copies to be mailed to media outlets should any of various contingencies occur.

A copy was mailed anonymously to Houghton and to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. The existence, distribution, and conditions of the revelation of the other copies were made clear to the SSCI. Houghton resigned two days later. Health concerns.

The SSCI never publicized the matter, but over the next few weeks, the CIA got a new director and underwent extensive internal restructuring. Graham's death and the death of the agents was reported as an accident during a routine inspection of a CIA safe house. The burial covered up. No surprise.

When they returned to Burbank, no one bothered Chuck or Ellie or Devon or Morgan. Evidently, the SSCI was hoping to let _Omaha _rest in piece, no reanimation.

And then a large sum of money appeared in Chuck's bank account and in Ellie's. A _large_ sum. They were both instantly wealthy.

The money came from an account Chuck could trace to Switzerland. But the account was a numbered account; no names. Chuck bought a burner and called the Swiss bank. He gave them the account number and was immediately transferred to the bank's manager.

The manager was polite but adamant in refusing to say anything about the owner of the account. Famous, tight-lipped Swiss. But he said there was a flag attached to the account, a note to be read should anyone call, asking about a particular transfer of funds. The manager read the note: "A small recognition of your parents' massive sacrifice for their country. We have added their anonymous stars to the Memorial Wall at Langley. Tell the Piranha to stop fishing."

He did stop. He did not know if Sarah had a star or not.

Hush money, yes, but Chuck had no desire to make noise. Neither did Ellie. They had lost so much.

ooOoo

Carina went back to work in DC only to find that she had been promoted and given a generous raise.

She eventually discovered that it was the DEA agent who saw Ellie in the restaurant near the Canaan Inn who had decided that he would double-dip: he told Carina, but then he told Houghton, who told Graham.

That was how Graham found them in _Omaha. _Carina fired the man. She wanted to do worse but Ellie talked Carina out of it. Or Ellie hoped she had. She and Chuck were not quite sure.

ooOoo

Chuck sighed, gazing into the woods where Sarah and Carina had emerged that morning when Carina came to the cabin. He willed Sarah to walk to him again — but his will produced nothing but fresh, frustrated tears.

All these things had slipped by him while he was so sad he could hardly hold up his head. But he had refused to just go to bed and stay there, even though that was what he longed to do: to stare at the ceiling and relive his precious days with Sarah; to curse himself for losing the days they spent driving from LA to West Virginia; to be thankful for the time they had there, the stolen moment while Carina showered, the brief talk in _Omaha_ saying _I love you's _face-to-face.

He refused to become comatose with grief because that would be a betrayal of her. Of her sacrifice. _Sarah's_. She had thought him worth dying for — he could not stop living as a result.

He quit the Buy More and despite the windfall of money applied to and interviewed with Apple. A few days later, they hired him. He moved out of Ellie and Devon's apartment and found a place in Cupertino, near Apple headquarters. A nice apartment with two bedrooms and a small backyard.

The job was good. Research and Development. He had already been promoted twice, clickety-clack. No end was in sight for his rise. He had had a personal meeting with Tim Cook just a few days ago.

He was glad of the job, excited by it — but in a distant way. His unendured grief kept everything at a distance. His thoughts and feeling slipped through his hands, lubricious, unhandsome. He could not get his life close to him, could not _feel _it.

He had driven to the cabin in hopes of returning to some intimacy with himself, even if it meant he would finally have to endure the grief, accept that the woman he loved was gone, and to console himself that they had, indeed, loved a lifetime's worth in just a few days. Console himself despite the fact that he felt the loss of that life so deeply; despite the fact that he felt so cheated.

He looked down at Bumby in his lap.

The worn teddy bear had been a comfort to him, a tie to the woman he had glimpsed, slowly emerging in the days he spent with Sarah, a tie to the child that woman had once been and who Chuck had glimpsed too, near the end. Agent: woman: child. All different yet somehow all one.

He did not know her whole history, of course.

Ellie had told him what Sarah told her, and it helped Chuck piece some things together, but there were gaps.

Mostly, there were gaps.

Sarah was discontinuous in his knowledge of her, fragmented. He was not sure how a little girl who could not sleep without Bumby became the CIA's top terminator, a woman of forty-nine kills.

A woman whose targeted fiftieth kill was alive because of her, seated on the porch of her cabin, cuddling her teddy bear, and missing her so overwhelmingly that his whole life, and not just his bed, seemed deserted, permanently deserted.

The sun now rose and set on Sarah, gone.

Her absence was the ground on which his whole world stood, stood shaky and bewildering and so gray.

He was excommunicated from himself.

He straightened Bumby's crooked, smudged tie and smiled back at Bumby's red-felt grin. Chuck's smile was red too — but not felt.

_Sarah!_

* * *

Sarah did not die.

Outran the fireball, gouged leg and all, bruised and battered. Swung herself into the crematory, feet first, the gauge as a handle. Had not planned it.

Heard Graham's word, 'cremated' in her head as she ran. Made it. Shut the door, holding it closed. As much as she could. The fireball, the sun, supernova, a worlds-consuming blast of heat.

Stunned Sarah.

Burned her fingers, the immediate searing heat of the metal. Shrugged off her backpack in the small space, rolled over. Seconds later in an oven, cooking — baking — alive. The Brazen Bull of Phalaris. _Where did I hear that? _

Looked up in the darkness.

She saw still-darker darkness. A chimney. _The chimney! _

The ground shook again. The chimney could collapse. Maybe it had, further up.

But she was short of breath, sweating. The room around her, around the crematory, burning. Must be. Temperature climbing.

She had to too. Climb. Chimney small. Backpack shoved up first, Sarah followed. Stretching her arms above her head, pushing, her feet. Serpentined into the hole.

Claustrophobia, not normally a problem but she could take no deep, full breath. Wedging herself upward, cooler, but tighter. Every breath felt too shallow, like the last. Dizzy.

Escape — only to die in the gorge of an earthen tunnel. _No._

Up, suffocating, up. _Up._

Tunnel not completely vertical, diagonal. Backpack first. Up, blacking out. _Up_.

Up…

Out. _Out! _

Fresh, cool air. Gulping it down like cold water. All thirst, all suffocation. Air!

Out.

Flat on her back among pine trees. Diamonds of blue through the needles. Sky, still there, not falling.

_Chuck, I'm alive!_

Maybe that was how Stephen and Mary and Trina Jerrod got out, the disc and notebooks dropped as they escaped...

Rose to her feet, stumbled. Stopped. Returned. Grabbed the backpack, slung it on.

_Chuck._

She ran. Her native sense of direction, unerring, compass-like. Late afternoon. Long shadows of pines. Her pants leg bloody. Hands, burned, scratched by thorns.

Edge of the clearing. The door to _Omaha. _Smoke and dust rising into the air.

Stopped.

Saw them, her heart leaped. Up, almost out of her chest. _Up_. Chuck, Ellie, Devon, Morgan, Carina — all safe. Morgan sitting on the ground, shaking his head, Ellie caring for him.

Chuck was staring down into the rubble, waving the smoke and dust away. Devon was holding him in place. Chuck was weeping.

Started to step into the clearing, to wave. _I'm alive! _She had done it. Saved him. Saved Chuck. Everyone. Even herself.

Herself. Herself? Wasn't she beyond salvage, the assassin?

Now, what? — Offer Chuck the assassin, the woman with 49 target kills and who knew how many others? Ryker, the two other agents from the hospital. The guards of targets. Possible collateral damage, foreseen even if unintended. Sarah trailed so many bodies.

But Frost...

Frost had chosen Stephen, been chosen by him.

She had not shot him, intended to kill him, been sent to kill him. Frost had not been Stephen's assassin. They had not had that to come back from. Chuck had forgiven Sarah, she felt it in his embrace in the motel bed, his words in _Omaha_, but how could he forget?

How could she?

How could she forgive herself?

A few days with a good man. She had had them.

Enough.

She had been prepared to die, to give him up so that he could go on. What was different now, even if she was alive?

He could go on, now, without her. Unencumbered by her past, the trailing corpses.

She stayed hidden. Sarah did. Eyes filling with tears

Stood at the edge of the clearing, in the brush. Watched as the group gathered themselves up, headed down the overgrown road. Chuck stumbling, Carina rubbing his arm. Devon, one arm around Ellie, the other steadying Morgan.

Watched until they disappeared. Then started, slowly, making sure she was not seen. Aching, her injuries, made it easy to go slow. Aching, her heart.

Tears blinded her as she stumbled along.

They were gone when she got to where the car had been parked, Chuck was gone.

Everyone.

Graham's large, heavy sedan, black, was there, and a Jeep, unlocked. The agents'.

Backpack in the Jeep, passenger seat. Took the driver's seat. Hotwired it and drove away.

She had kept Chuck alive. Now she would give him his life. Free of a former killer. No place in his life, no matter how much she desired it.

_Judgment Day_. Come and gone. _Sentence first, verdict afterward_.

Drove to the storage facility. Took all the money, IDs, her box that had housed Bumby. Parked the Jeep and rented a car. Drove.

Drove.

Aching and broken and broken-hearted, drove to Maine, the remote coast. Found a cabin to rent, bought supplies, and settled in, alone. Tears and the cold, grey ocean. Rocky beaches.

Days to mine and nights to shore.

The cold, grey ocean. And tears.

ooOoo

Days later, tears finally slowing, ebbing, after yet another of countless long walks, sweatered but cold, thinking and feeling, Sarah opened the backpack.

Took out the picture of Frost and her family. The Bartowskis. Glass broken.

The picture cut and stabbed. Carefully, full of care, she took it from the frame, taped it back together. Stood it on the mantle over the fireplace in the cabin. Sat in a rickety rocker and looked at it. Was looked at by it.

Ruminated.

_Frost. Seemed to stare back at Sarah. "Don't you love my son? — Then love my son."_

Hours of staring, two ways. Until the daylight was gone, dusk gray, and darkness stole the picture from her. Finally realized: she wounded Chuck again. Leaving him to mistaken grief.

The picture haunted her.

Stared at her. She stared back. Frost did. Sarah did.

More days past. Weeks.

Still, Frost stared. Finally, Sarah stood before the picture and spoke.

"I love your son, Mary."

— _Then go back to him and make a life together. I did it with Stephen. _

— _Can I go back and face him, make things right even though I left?_

She missed him so much that her entire body was a toothache. No relief.

She decided to go back. Face Chuck.

Finally, face the future.

But she was afraid. Before the future had been...blank.

Now, she knew what she wanted, and so knew what she might not have.

ooOoo

The next morning she was sick. Vomited. Vomited again. But it passed.

Tired. Listless. Even more depressed, impossible. Her mood, uncontrollable. More tears, sudden exhaustion. Everything smelled wrong, tasted wrong.

She was packed and ready to leave, but she did not want to start the journey sick, fly while so nauseated. She stayed another day and then another, sick each morning, into the afternoon. She tried not to think about why.

To distract herself, she took Frost's video log and put it in the cabin's VCR.

She sat and watched a little each day, eating saltines.

The video log was all business at first, Frost curt and factual. But later, it became more personal. Spoke of Stephen, of Chuck and Ellie. Sarah saw the agent become the wife become the mother.

And then, this:

"I don't know if Stephen and I will ever get out of here. Maybe we don't deserve to. Yes, we've been coerced, but what we've been coerced to do…" Frost stopped, swallowed. Steeled herself. "We've done it to keep our children safe. Our children. My husband…" She stopped again, smiled, clearly slipping into memory.

"...There was a time I was sure I didn't deserve a man like Stephen. The things I had done. The things I did to myself so that I could do them...When I met him, spent time with him, my world began to change. I changed — but so did the whole, wide world. From sad to happy. A new world. From gauntlet to...Garden." Her mouth crooked up at her imagery, apparently unexpected by her.

"And I loved it, I loved him, so much. And it terrified me. I was afraid, afraid I would be...the serpent in Stephen's Garden. Cause him to fall. Take all that...goodness from him. But then one day he took my hand, and slipped a ring on my finger," tears on Frost, "...and he told me, told me that the misery and the glory of being human was that who we've been never settles who we are, that we are cursed and blessed always to be works-in-progress, projects.

"And then he asked me to be his wife. To be a work-in-progress with him, to work together with him, a joint project. — And what could I say to that but _yes_?"

Sarah stood and left the cabin. She got in the car and drove to the small town nearby. She bought a pregnancy test and went back. Took it.

_Yes._

Her CIA birth-control implant had failed. She had forgotten that it was time to replace it. It had mattered so little for so long. And then in all the fragmented confusion after Puerto Alegre, it had not crossed her mind.

_Yes._

_Life, I'm carrying a life. Chuck's and mine. Ours._

She picked up her packed suitcase right then and drove to the airport. Left the cabin and put her earlier decision into action.

ooOoo

In Burbank, she drove to Chuck's apartment. Sick with nerves, she knocked. Ellie opened the door and went white. Trembled. Then she threw herself around Sarah, hugging her.

Hugging her. And hugging her. Sarah hugging back.

They went inside. Sarah asked to see Chuck, but Ellie told her he had gone to Sarah's cabin, that he had decided to spend a few days there.

Ellie kept hugging her, crying, as if unsure she was real and as if only bodily contact could prove that she was. Sarah was overwhelmed. She cried too. For a while, they did not talk, they just wept together.

And then they had a long talk. Sarah told Ellie what had happened and where she had been. What she had been thinking and feeling. But she kept the pregnancy to herself. Ellie was the first to know Sarah was still alive, but Chuck would be the first to know about the baby.

Sarah got up to leave. She looked at Ellie. "Will he forgive me for letting him think I was dead, Ellie?" _Will he want me, our child?_

"You shot him and he forgave you. Go, find him, tell him his love is alive. He'll understand. All he wants is a life with you. A future and a family. — And after you tell him and you two...celebrate, then I want you both to come back here as soon as you can, so we can all celebrate your resurrection properly!"

Ellie hugged her once more at the door and Sarah left. She walked to her rental car.

_Arise, walk, in newness of life. _

ooOoo

Sarah saw Chuck seated on the porch. Her heart raced.

She saw Bumby in his lap. His cheeks were wet; he wiped them with the back of his hand. He looked unseeingly in her direction.

She stepped out from behind the cover.

He saw her.

He leaped from the chair and ran to her. Bumby in his hand. She opened her arms and Chuck enveloped her in his long arms. So long.

He whispered her name. "Sarah!" Over and over, _Sarah. _They held each other for a long time, so long, but not enough. Chuck stepped back and looked at her.

"I wanted to believe but it was too hard. I didn't see how..."

"The crematory. It had a chimney. I crawled up and out."

Chuck wiped his eyes again, nodding. "But you didn't come to me…"

"No, Chuck. I...thought it would be better for you if I was not in your life."

"Did I ever say that?"

She reached up and cupped his cheek. "No, you never said that. I just...believed it, or believed that I believed it. And now I don't."

He hugged her again and then kissed her senseless.

She was dizzy when they parted. "I love you, Chuck. I'm sorry about the past few months. I guess maybe I needed the time, to be sure, to be sure that...old life was behind me...and that I was ready for a new one." She looked down, then up. "_With you_?"

"Is that a proposal, Miss Walker?"

It was, though she had not planned it or quite intended it. Sarah grinned, the tension of the past few months flowing out of her, into the ground and away, ripples toward the horizon. She heard birdsong. Felt the breeze. The rustle of the tree leaves. Chuck was beaming, waiting.

_That smile, that really nice smile._

"Well, it's still _Sarah, _Chuck, but right now it's Miss Watson. Sarah Watson."

"I don't care what my last name is, as long as it's yours too, Sarah."

She laughed. "Why, Mr. Bartowski, is that a _yes_?"

He nodded. He held Bumby out to her. "I need a wife and Bumby here, he needs a mother."

Sarah gave him a deliberately mysterious smile, taking the teddy bear and cuddling it to her. "About that — I have a secret I need to tell you."

A flash of anxiety. "A secret?"

"Don't freak out, Chuck, this one is a good one."

* * *

Zero. The assassin.

One. Sarah.

Two. Chuck and Sarah.

Three. Chuck and Sarah — and a little girl.

* * *

_The End_

**Burying Dirt**

* * *

A/N: And that's that.

I'm done with stories for a while. I have a couple of Chuck-related non-fiction projects to finish up. I mentioned them yesterday on the Chuck Fanfic FaceBook page.

I often write with a guitar in my lap. As I wrote this story, I played and replayed David Gray's song, "The Mystery of Love". It is the song of this story.

Thanks for reading! I'd enjoy knowing your thoughts here at the end. See you around!


End file.
